


Such Great Heights

by oldtrustylegs



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drama, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2018-08-11 02:13:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 62,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7871770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldtrustylegs/pseuds/oldtrustylegs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sequel/alternate ending to Complicated Shadows. Severus Snape and Samantha Rhodes try to build a life in the post-war wizarding world. But is the war well and truly over? SS/OC</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Trick Is To Keep Breathing

**Author's Note:**

> I began posting this in 2012 on FF.net. I am re-posting what has been completed thus far and will post new chapters both here and on FF.
> 
> They’re back! This story is neither a sequel and nor is it really an alternate ending to Complicated Shadows. It is somewhere between the two. This story picks up near the end of chapter 35 of Complicated Shadows and gives you all that alternate ending you were so hoping for. Rather than stopping there, however, I am going to continue on into life after the war.
> 
> One warning before you being reading, if you’ve not yet read Complicated Shadows, you should probably do so or this story will make very little sense. You can read the whole thing or just through chapter 35. (Yes, I hear you, “Just chapter 35, she says.”) If you have read it, you may want to re-read that chapter (and maybe a couple before) if it’s been a while.
> 
> I think that’s all that needs to be said. Please read and review!

“Samantha,” he choked out.  “I came back.” 

Though his breathing was ragged and his voice harsh and strained from the wound on his neck, which continued to seep blood, Snape’s chest likewise continued to rise and fall with encouraging regularity.  The blood replenishing potion Samantha had given him appeared to at least stabilize him, but he was far from the road to recovery.  Samantha, however, was damned if they were going to get through the battle alive and have Snape die on her. 

“We need to get him back to the castle _now_ ,” Samantha demanded.  

Kingsley and Arthur immediately bent to lift Snape’s limp body.  The group quickly, but carefully, made their way over the lawn strewn with rubble and wounded.  Samantha led the way, shoving and shouting as she went. 

Word must have made its way to the castle even faster than Samantha, for McGonagall was waiting at the doors to what remained of Hogwarts’ once imposing Entrance Hall.  Her tartan robes were torn and stained and her usually strictly controlled hair was half falling down her back in gray waves. 

“Poppy has already been alerted that you’re on your way,” she said, in clear need of some way to assuage her guilt.  “The hospital wing is all but demolished, so you’ll have to make do in the Great Hall.” 

“It will have to do,” Samantha responded tersely as she hurried up the stairs.  She was in no mood to help McGonagall make up for how horribly she’d treated Snape – and her, for that matter – over the past year.  There would be enough time for that later, there was no room for fresh leaves quite yet. 

The students, teachers, and Order members alike parted at Samantha’s barked bidding, allowing Kingsley and Arthur, supporting Snape’s body, to pass in her wake.  Samantha spotted Madam Pomfrey the moment she stepped into the Great Hall.  She looked equally as harried as McGonagall, but at least didn’t look as though an apology was on the tip of her tongue (though Samantha wasn’t so sure that particular feeling wouldn’t surface soon).  The woman had, thankfully, cleared out an area in which they could work on Snape without an audience breathing down their necks. 

“Do you have an antidote for Nagini’s venom?” Samantha asked, though she was not at all hopeful at the answer. 

“No,” she answered.  Samantha’s face fell.  “But,” she continued, “Severus has the formulation for one that he brewed for Arthur.” 

Samantha whipped her head around.  How had she never been made aware of this?  Stocks of the antidote should have been made in advance. 

“It happened the year before you came here,” Arthur said, somewhat sheepishly, by way of explanation. 

“You work on keeping him stabilized,” said Samantha, turning back to face Poppy.  “I am going to see what remains of the dungeons.” 

“I will do everything in my power,” Poppy assured her.  

Samantha sighed as she turned to leave the hall.  And there it was.  These women were going to be haranguing Snape for forgiveness the moment he showed any signs of recovery.  She already knew exactly what his reaction would be: “There is nothing to forgive.”  There was, of course, but he would say that he had played his part and that he’d wanted them to treat him as they had.  That that’s what they were supposed to do.  On some level, however much she didn’t want to acknowledge it, he was right.  If they had questioned his allegiances, his life would have been unquestionably placed in even greater jeopardy than it already was.  The problem was that they had all been so ready to doubt his loyalty to Dumbledore and they had easily allowed his history to completely cloud their judgment.  Then again, had Samantha not done the same?  She had allowed her feelings for him to control how she viewed his actions just as they had done.  They were two sides of the same coin, as was so maddeningly often the case in her life.  

These thoughts carried Samantha to the badly damaged dungeons.  It was fortunate that the door to the lab had been blown clean off, for she had never been given free access to it despite her relationship with Snape.  Luck did not even begin to cover how very fortunate it was that the fighting had not really made it down this far and, though there was severe structural damage to the walls, likely from errant spells and the crashing of thunderous giants on the upper levels, the majority of Snape’s ingredients and equipment were intact. 

“Now, where would you be if you were a research notebook,” Samantha said aloud to the room, standing in the doorway with her hands on her hips.  She had read somewhere that you were more likely to find something if you actually said the word of the thing you were looking for.  Her habit of talking to herself suddenly seemed like a virtue. 

It took Samantha only minutes to locate the battered notebook.  While he had likely copied out his final findings elsewhere, she didn’t have the time to search his entire office.  She began to flip through pages, forcing herself to not get sidetracked by what was clearly decades worth of research.  She finally came across a potion that had no title, probably on purpose, but clearly had all the elements one could look for in an antivenin.  

She was devastated, even if she was not surprised, to find that Nagini’s venom was one of those elements.  Before allowing herself to lose all hope, she started searching through Snape’s fairly priceless ingredients, praying that he’d kept a vial of it on hand.  As she carefully sifted through the vials and jars, her confidence that she could save him began to fade as each item proved to be yet another exciting, expensive, and completely useless ingredient.  Just as her pool of candidates shrank to only five remaining options, she picked up a small black vial labeled in Snape’s unmistakable handwriting.  She struggled to make out the small script and nearly dropped it when she realized she was holding a vial of Nagini’s venom. 

“Thank you,” she fervently whispered to whatever deity happened to be listening. 

Samantha assembled all of the equipment and ingredients Snape had listed in his notebook to make sure there wasn’t anything she was missing.  Seeing that all seemed to be in order, she sent her Patronus to the Great Hall to tell Poppy that she was beginning the potion and to keep working on Snape.  

As her Patronus, which had from her childhood taken the form of a beloved cat she had owned for most of her young life, took off for the Great Hall, Samantha set to work brewing what would likely be one of the most complicated potions she had ever attempted to create.  The intricate brewing process probably matched, if it did not exceed, the time-consuming work that went into Wolfsbane.  It cemented once more in her mind Snape’s shamefully unrecognized prowess in the discipline.  It also drove her to succeed in saving him if only because he would then be free to research and publish to his heart’s content. 

Both Poppy and McGonagall let out a sigh of relief when Samantha’s Patronus delivered its message.  It was one of the first times in more years than they cared to think about that either of the witches could remember that a Patronus had been used to announce _good_ news. 

Poppy continued to tend to Snape as McGonagall looked on.  Bystanders had initially tried to catch a peek of the ailing war hero, but Kingsley had swiftly dissuaded anyone of getting too close to the mediwitch and her patient.  Snape still looked awful, but there was the barest hint of color in his cheeks, even if Poppy could still not get the wound to close.  She knew it was dark magic preventing it from healing properly, but she hadn’t the first idea what to try first.  Her best hope was Snape’s own potion.  It didn’t heal the wound on its own, as they’d found with Arthur, but it counteracted the dark magic in the venom, allowing healing spells to work as they should. 

“How did he do it?” McGonagall asked everyone and no one for what was probably the hundredth time.  “All that time and he had no one who knew the truth.” 

“Samantha knew the truth,” Poppy said, though neither had heard that from Samantha herself. 

“I suspect she did,” McGonagall agreed with a sigh.  She would have plenty of apologizing to do when all this was over. 

McGonagall paced furiously while Poppy continued to work on keeping Snape from slipping into a coma.  They were bad enough in the Muggle world, but a coma brought on through dark magic actively worked to trap the victim in a comatose state, effectively turning him into a prisoner in his own tormented mind.  Witches and wizards who were left in comas for too long had been known to lose their minds when revived.  Poppy knew she would have little hope of saving Snape even with the potion should that come to pass. 

It was hours before Samantha had a finished batch of the potion.  There was only enough of the venom left for one attempt.  While the potion appeared to be what Snape had described in his notes, Samantha knew the only sure test was to come.  However much confidence she had in her skills, the circumstances in which she’d found herself brewing were not particularly conducive to the kind of exacting concentration she normally devoted to her potions.  Samantha fervently prayed as she ascended the stairs from the dungeons that her work would prove successful. 

“Poppy, I have it,” she said urgently, hurrying to Snape’s cot.  

Most people were busy tending to others, if they weren’t sleeping themselves, so they thankfully had no audience to speak of as Samantha administered the potion.  She sat on the edge of Snape’s cot and pulled the cork out of the flask.  Poppy had shifted Snape’s pillows so he was almost in a sitting position.  He was completely unconscious.  It was the only thing saving him from the pain he would feel given that they couldn’t give him any pain relieving potions until after his wound could be closed.  Samantha held his head back and tipped the flask into his open mouth.  She massaged his throat to help him swallow, careful to avoid aggravating the bite marks. 

“How long did this take last time?” Samantha asked Poppy as she gently laid his head back on his pillow, keeping her eyes on his pale face. 

“Arthur was conscious within a couple of hours, but he was found almost immediately after he’d been attacked.  Given the state of him, Severus had to have been bitten at least three or four hours ago.  Maybe more,” Poppy said, worry creeping into her voice. 

“It was more.  I saw him in the forest just as Malfoy told him that the Dark Lord wanted to talk to him.  That was not long after the battle began.  He _must_ have known something like this could happen,” Samantha said angrily, more to herself than to anyone around her.  “Why was he not prepared for it?” 

As Samantha brooded, Poppy ran diagnostic spells over Snape’s prone form.  Samantha looked up at her expectantly when she was done.  Poppy shook her head. 

“It’s too soon to tell anything,” she said apologetically.  “You should get some sleep.  I will run these checks again in an hour.” 

Samantha shook her head.  She was not about to take a nap while Snape fought for his life.  She sat in the chair next to his bed, his clammy hand clasped firmly in her own. 

Throughout the night, Poppy performed hourly diagnostic spells on Snape’s condition.  Each hour, she could give Samantha no more hope than she had the previous.  After this had happened the fourth time, Samantha reached into the pocket of her robes to extract the rosary she had taken to keeping on her person.  Most of the time, it served as little more than a security blanket, now she was desperate to have her prayers heard.  Keeping Snape’s hand in her own, she knelt on the hard, cold stone and wrapped the rosary around both of their hands.  She leant her head against their clasped hands and begged for Snape’s recovery.  Samantha could practically feel her heart break at the very thought that she could lose Snape after they’d gotten through this far.  

Poppy continued to tend to Snape around Samantha, who refused to move for the rest of the night and into the morning.  The only concession she would allow was a small pillow to pad her aching knees. 

It was nearing midday when Snape stirred.  The first thing he registered was a searing pain in his neck.  The second was that he was no longer in the Shrieking Shack.  From there, it all came back; giving his memories to Potter, Kingsley finding him, and Samantha on the battlefield.  Had he _actually_ survived?  It was then that he realized someone was holding his hand.  He cracked his eyes open and squinted against the harsh light coming in from the windows across the hall from where he lay.  Turning his head slightly, he saw Samantha, her head against their hands.  She wasn’t asleep, for her lips were moving and tears were sliding down her cheek.  Snape lifted a finger to brush them away.  Samantha gasped and looked up at him. 

“Severus,” she whispered in a broken voice, sounding as if this surely must be a dream. 

“Samantha,” he croaked.  He winced at the pain. 

Samantha stood up immediately and called for Poppy, who rushed to his side. 

“Oh, Severus, you had us so worried,” Poppy exclaimed, clearly relieved.  “I am going to try to heal your wound now.  The potion should have removed dark magic.” 

He must have had a quizzical look on his face, for she nodded her head toward Samantha. 

“I found your notes for Arthur,” Samantha explained, continuing to hold his hand in a vice-like grip.  “You do know there are about eight superfluous steps in the potion, right?” 

Snape almost laughed at her critique.  Only she wouldn’t think twice about saying such a thing at a time like this. 

Poppy said the spell and sighed in relief when it closed the wound.  There would be a nasty scar, but there was no more dark magic preventing at least most of it from healing properly.  Samantha immediately grabbed a pain relief potion from the small trolley that had been wheeled to Snape’s bedside and moved to bring it to his lips.  Snape shook his head and took the bottle from her hands. 

“Let me do it myself,” he said in a whisper, not wanting to strain his throat.  He was thankful that Samantha didn’t look put out by his refusal, but rather glad that he was asserting his ability to take care of himself.  Snape downed the potion and immediately felt a lessening of the pain in his neck, but there was still a background throbbing.  Given that he should have died, he had to be thankful for small mercies. 

Samantha took in a great lungful of air and let it out slowly as she smiled at him.  She moved her hand to his face to brush the stray hairs out of his eyes. 

“We survived,” she said simply, knowing the great weight those two words carried for both of them. 

Snape never believed he would ever hear those words.  He had accepted a long time ago that he would die doing what he did.  Spies were not known for their longevity and, frankly, he was surprised that he had lasted as long as he had.  Truthfully, he was at a loss as to what came next.  This had been his existence for his entire adult life and, if he were honest, had defined much of his adolescence.  He wouldn’t mind continuing to teach, he knew that much.  Excellent as his brewing skills were, Snape had no desire to go into it commercially.  Customers had to be treated with kindness and care.  Students did not.  He suppressed the urge to grin wickedly as he imagined his students finding out that he would not stop being a bastard just because the war was over.  And not only that, he could finally rein in his house.  He could finally encourage them to develop the skills that had gotten them into Slytherin without the attendant ideology he’d been required to uphold.  New beginnings, indeed. 

Samantha watched Snape carefully as he stared out of the window opposite his bed.  She said nothing, wanting to allow her words to sink in.  The glimmer of amusement in his eyes, however, piqued her interest. 

“What on earth is going on in that head of yours, Severus Snape?” She asked, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. 

Snape raised an eyebrow as he turned to look at her, his lips twitching, plans already forming. 

“The House of Slytherin won’t know what hit them.”


	2. Rebuild and Renew

Snape’s recovery progressed far more quickly than either he or Samantha could have even hoped for.  By the second day of forced bed rest, Snape had rebelled and begun pacing the Great Hall, easily dissuading any well-wishers from approaching him along the way.  He had taken to doing so each day, Samantha at his side.  By the fourth day, he had offered his arm to her.  Samantha only just refrained from smirking triumphantly when he did so.  They had spent so long hiding everything; she didn’t even have the words to describe how relieved she felt that they could finally be what she’d longed for all those months ago as they hid themselves away in the headmaster’s rooms: a “normal” couple.  

The rebuilding of the castle, however, was a far different matter.  Magical though it was, the wards that had protected its walls had not fallen in centuries.  Indeed, prior to Voldemort, no wizard had ever succeeded in completely penetrating the layer upon layer of spells and enchantments that each head and his or her staff had cast upon the castle since its founding.  The first task that presented itself was clearing out the rubble and deciding from there what could be salvaged and what was simply too destroyed to serve any further purpose. 

Snape was adamant that no one but he and Samantha be allowed to go through anything having to with potions, whether it was the lab, his office, or one of his trio of storerooms.  He’d had some of the workmen as students and wanted them nowhere near his equipment or his ingredients.  Though Poppy had _strongly_ cautioned him against overtaxing himself so soon after such a traumatic experience, Snape was equally strong in his determination to get his dungeons back in working order.  Samantha could only stand by and shrug while quietly assuring Poppy after he’d stormed out of the Great Hall that she would keep an eye on him. 

“At least _your_ rooms weren’t in the main thoroughfare of the fighting,” Samantha observed on their second day of cleaning after Snape had complained about the mess.  “I’ve lost nearly everything I had in the castle.” 

“I am sorry,” he said, for once sounding genuinely apologetic.  “I did not realize.” 

Samantha shrugged. 

“I’m alive and you’re alive, I cannot ask for much more than that,” she said with a smile.  “Besides, most of what I own of any value is still in my flat in London.” 

“Your flat in London?” Snape asked, utterly confused. 

“The one my Mark and I had,” she explained.  “Did I really never tell you that I hadn’t yet sold it?” 

Snape shook his head. 

Samantha sat and sighed. 

“To be honest, when I first came here, I couldn’t bear the thought of selling it.  And I didn’t know if I’d ever need it again.  It is, if I may say so, a bloody nice flat,” she added almost as an aside.  “But it wasn’t as if I needed the money.  I inherited everything Mark had when he died.” 

Snape raised an eyebrow.  Samantha winced inwardly.  She hadn’t meant it to sound so…arrogant. 

_“Indeed?”_   He said, Samantha could almost swear he sounded jealous, even angry.  He refused to look at her, however, and instead resolutely returned to clearing out the storeroom in the lab.   

“Severus,” said Samantha, trying to get his attention.  “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,” he answered, too quickly Samantha thought. 

“No, not nothing.  Are you upset that I haven’t gotten rid of the flat?”  She asked, wondering if perhaps he thought she wasn’t ready to move on from Mark. 

“Why should I care if you own a ‘bloody nice flat’ and inherited a fortune so large you can just forget to tell me about it?”  Snape responded with the hint of sneer. 

Samantha rolled her eyes.  Magical or not, British society managed to hold on to class prejudices in a way she had never experienced in America.  It did, perhaps, explain why there was such isolation in the magical community from the broader population.  From her experience, the majority of American wizards and witches – pureblood or not – lived among Muggles with no problem.  Then again, she had only lived in the Northeast.  Perhaps wizards in the Bible Belt kept themselves just as hidden as their British counterparts. 

“Severus,” Samantha said again, her voice quiet and pleading.  “I wasn’t trying to hide anything from you.  None of it seemed relevant when we didn’t even know if we’d still be alive the next day.” 

She tried not to get angry, but as she spoke her voice only got louder until she’d finally yelled “day.” 

Snape slammed the jar he was holding down on the counter so hard Samantha was sure it would shatter.  He turned and made for the door, but Samantha grabbed his arm and forced him to face her. 

“What is this about?  Mark?  The money?  Or the fact that I didn’t tell you?” 

Snape crossed his arms over his chest and merely glared, unwilling to respond.  Samantha mirrored his pose.  Two could play at this game.  After a few moments, Snape looked away.  He tapped his foot irritably, looking indecisive.  Finally, he sighed and turned back to face Samantha. 

“I can’t give you any of that,” he mumbled at last, the words unwillingly escaping from his lips. 

Samantha knew better than to laugh in response. 

“Do you think I married Mark because of his money, Severus?” Samantha asked, thinking she would probably hit him if he said he did. 

Snape wisely shook his head. 

“Then why should it matter how much money you have?” 

Truth be told, Samantha had absolutely no idea what his finances looked like.  She had a feeling he hadn’t grown up in the lap of luxury, but he dressed well enough to suggest that he had a little set aside. 

“I grew up poor,” he said at last.  As if that would explain it all.  “Working class.” 

“Severus, I grew up in America, those kinds of class differences don’t hold water the way they do here,” she explained.  “And I might add that my parents were not made of money either.  Mark practically paid for our wedding out of his own pocket.” 

“And now you’ll have to do the same,” Snape responded immediately, without thinking of what he was actually saying.  Samantha practically fainted. 

“Wh- Are you-,” Samantha stopped and laughed to break the tension.  “Was that some kind of round about proposal?” 

Snape shrugged in response, clearly self-conscious about what he’d revealed. 

“If you want me to answer you, you have to do it properly,” Samantha challenged him, crossing her arms over her chest. 

He raised an eyebrow and – Samantha’s heart leapt – smirked in response.  Wordlessly, he withdrew his wand from his sleeve and summoned something from the vicinity of his office.  Not a moment later, a small black box zoomed into his outstretched hand.  

“If you think you’re getting a speech, you are clearly with the wrong man,” Snape said as he slowly lowered himself to one knee, doing all he could to not wince as his knees and ankles cracked.  When had he gotten so old? 

Samantha was trying rather in vain to not be too giddy about what was coming. 

“Samantha Rhodes,” he said, opening the box to reveal the ring within.  “Will you marry me?” 

“Of course, my love,” Samantha responded, bending over to kiss him, smiling against his mouth. 

Snape buried one hand in her hair, holding her mouth to his as he stood back to his full height.  When they parted, Samantha was graced with one of the few true smiles she had ever seen on his face.  She knew how rarely he did smile wasn’t a reflection on what he felt for her, but rather that he smiled at all.  Samantha shakily held out her left hand for Snape to place the ring on her finger.  

Whatever he may have said about growing up poor, it was clear that he hadn’t skimped on this.  Samantha knew immediately that it wasn’t an heirloom piece and that Snape must have bought it himself.  What she was most surprised about, however, was how well he seemed to guess the style that she liked.  She didn’t wear that much jewelry on a regular basis and had stopped wearing her rings from her previous marriage before she had even met Snape.  This ring, she had to admit, was perfect.  Rather than one solid band, it had two thin bands on the top that were lined with small diamonds and then merged to form one band that wrapped around the underside of her finger.  The center stone was a rounded square, surrounded by more tiny diamonds.  It was not so large as to be gaudy, but large enough that there was no mistaking this for anything other than an engagement ring.  Tears filled Samantha’s eyes as she stared down at her hand. 

“Severus, I don’t know what to say,” she said, her voice thick with emotion.  “It’s perfect.  When on earth did you get it?” 

“Last year,” he said, his eyes likewise fixed on the ring.  “Before…everything happened.  I took polyjuice and went to a Muggle jeweler.” 

Samantha shook her head in disbelief at his determination.    

“I guess I’ll be sending an owl to Father Matthews today,” said Samantha, still smiling.  She laughed when she saw Snape’s look of panic. 

“Not that quickly,” she assured him.  “But it’s best to tell him now.  Even if we wanted to get married right away anyway we couldn’t.  It takes a minimum of six months just to get through the pre-nuptial classes.” 

_“Classes?”_ Snape asked, beginning to feel a little out of his depth. 

“It’s a sacrament, they just want to make sure couples know what that means,” Samantha explained.  “Don’t worry, I’ve already done it once before.  They’re more like information seminars than anything else.” 

Snape nodded, but still looked dubious. 

While Snape went back to work, Samantha stood still in thought, though she was not contemplating the new ring on her finger.  The engagement had reminded her of how much of the future had still not been settled. 

“Severus,” she said after a moment.  “Have you thought about what you’re going to teach?” 

Snape reemerged from the storeroom, looking confused. 

“What I’m going to teach?” 

“Well, are you going to be teaching Defense or Potions this year?” 

There was a flash of understanding in his eyes. 

“It depends on what Minerva wants,” Snape answered honestly.  “The Defense post was always notoriously difficult to fill, due in large part to the now-substantiated rumor that it was cursed.  Either way, she will be looking for a Defense teacher or a Muggle Studies teacher.” 

“It’s just that I was thinking last night that I wouldn’t mind going back to Muggle Studies,” Samantha said carefully.  “I had some ideas about the curriculum and with everything that’s happened, I think there might be greater interest in the subject and I don’t want Minerva hiring the same kind of Muggle Studies teacher that’s taught the class in the past.” 

“I admit to being surprised you would willingly give up Potions,” said Snape. 

Samantha shrugged. 

“I love researching and experimenting with potions, not teaching it,” she explained.  “I got through last year, but that was thanks to, well, other reasons.  Potions students need a heavier hand, I’d much rather be the well-liked one.” 

Snape snorted as Samantha smirked. 

“Bring it up with Minerva before she makes anyone an offer.  Otherwise _you_ get to be the great bat of the dungeons.” 

Samantha looked pensive for a moment before giving him a lopsided smile. 

“What?” He asked, suspicious. 

“I just realized that I’ll be the well-liked Snape,” she said, still smiling. 

Snape was confused, but only for a moment.  When he realized what she was saying, he gave her a warm smile.  That would certainly take getting used to. 

Just before she left for her temporary rooms that evening, Samantha turned to Snape, who was going through his desk. 

“Severus, are we going to announce this or something?” She asked.  “People will definitely notice the ring on my finger.” 

Snape sat back in his chair.  This was not exactly his area of expertise.  After a moment of thought, he shrugged. 

“Is it necessary?  The only people who we would even care to know are in this castle,” he answered.  “Putting it in the _Prophet_ would probably not end well.” 

Samantha nodded in agreement.  It was certainly no use borrowing trouble doing that.  She bid Snape good night and walked back to the rooms she’d been given to use until her own were once more in working order. 

Snape sat back in his desk chair and shook his head in disbelief.  He had planned on asking her to marry him, but not quite so soon.  Still, she’d said yes and all had ended well.  For once in his life.  Well, that wasn’t entirely true.  They’d both survived the war, he was more or less in one piece, and now here he was, someone’s fiancé.  That was certainly something he’d never thought would happen.  Not after his fifth year, anyway. 

He sighed and leaned his head on the back of the chair.  Snape positively reveled in the knowledge that the memory of that day was no longer his worst.  Now that things were properly in perspective, he knew that while that incident had played a part in what he would become, it wasn’t the worst thing that had ever happened to him.  And it wasn’t as if he wouldn’t have gone off the rails sooner or later.  Lily’s condemnation had been bubbling beneath the surface for months and only took one word to bring it to light. 

Sitting up abruptly, Snape shook his head to get rid of the cobwebs.  There was no reason to be dwelling on such things when he had just gotten _engaged_.  Resolutely, he returned to clearing out his desk. 

The next morning, Samantha went straight for the head’s office, not wanting to give McGonagall any time to hire anyone in her place.  

“Minerva,” Samantha said by way of greeting upon entering the office.  McGonagall hadn’t changed it much, though it felt slightly more welcoming than when Snape had been its tenant. 

“Tea?” McGonagall asked, already moving toward the pot.  Samantha nodded. 

“I wanted to talk to about the coming term,” she started. 

McGonagall hummed her recognition as she poured milk into two cups. 

“I would like to teach Muggle Studies.  Severus–” she stopped, accepting her cup with a nod.  “Thank you.  Severus is perfectly willing to –” 

Samantha stopped again when she noticed that McGonagall wasn’t paying much attention to her.  Well, that wasn’t quite right.  She was paying an inordinate amount of attention to Samantha’s left hand. 

“Is that what I think it is?” McGonagall asked.  Samantha wasn’t sure what her tone suggested. 

She hadn’t meant to flash her ring when taking her cup, Samantha hadn’t done it the first time she’d been engaged and she wasn’t about to start now. 

“Um, well, yes,” said Samantha, a note of finality in her admission.  It was out in the open now.  Other people knew. 

“Don’t you think it’s a bit soon?” 

Samantha wasn’t affronted by the question.  It was perfectly legitimate.  Wars had a habit of creating relationships where none would have otherwise existed.  She shrugged. 

“We _have_ known each other for two years now and have been together for nearly half that.  I don’t think it was sudden by any means, even if Severus hadn’t really intended to ask me when he did,” Samantha explained.  “Had this happened in the middle of the war, then I don’t think it would have been a wise decision.  But we survived.  It’s time to start building a life; a _real_ life.” 

McGonagall, Samantha was surprised to see, seemed to be completely accepting of her answer.  Samantha couldn’t pretend she hadn’t rehearsed it in her head the night before, knowing someone would demand an explanation. 

“So, Muggle Studies, is it?” McGonagall said, turning their conversation back to Samantha’s initial reason for her visit. 

“Yes,” she said with a nod.  “And as I was saying, Severus will teach Potions.  If you can’t find someone for Defense, however, I think your only choice is to fill the Muggle Studies position while I teach Potions and he Defense.  I don’t think he’d give up Potions to anyone else if he has any choice in the matter.” 

“I thought Potions was your area.  Why would you go back to Muggle Studies?” 

“As I told Severus, I like teaching Muggle Studies and I like doing Potions research.  He’s far better at keeping his students under control than I am, so it suits me not to have to,” Samantha explained.  “And I have some ideas for the curriculum.” 

“Do you, now?” McGonagall asked with a smile.  Samantha would not be the last teacher to approach her with _ideas_. 

“I thought we might be able to include field trips,” she started tentatively, quickly building steam.  “My classes are smaller than most, so they would be manageable.  Other than the Muggleborns, I sincerely doubt many of the students here have gone to a museum.  Especially purebloods.  The best way to ensure that – what happened – doesn’t happen again is through showing them the fruits of Muggle society firsthand.  One is less likely to dehumanize another if they are acquainted with and can appreciate their social and cultural values.” 

Samantha drew a breath to continue. 

“I agree,” McGonagall interjected. 

“I think – oh,” Samantha said, belatedly registering McGonagall’s words.  “Well, I’ll start making arrangements, then.” 

“And Severus really doesn’t mind giving up Defense?” 

“I think Severus has practiced enough Defense against the Dark Arts to last a lifetime,” said Samantha.  “Do you know of anyone who could take the job?” 

“As it happens,” McGonagall began, taking a bite of shortbread.  “I do.  Bill Weasley happened to mention that he thought his curse breaking days might be at an end.” 

“He would be an _excellent_ choice,” Samantha said, turning thoughtful.  “Between his war experience and curse breaking, behind Severus he’s as qualified as they come.”   

“I thought as much myself,” said McGonagall.  “Well, I should be getting back to this paperwork.  Having the castle rebuilt has resulted in a landslide of forms.” 

“Of course,” Samantha said, brushing a few crumbs from her robes as she stood.  “One more thing before I go.” 

“Yes?” 

“I had thought about perhaps starting a monthly book club for the students.  The older ones rarely take Muggle Studies and I thought we could read Muggle fiction, plays, poetry, what have you.  Maybe fourth years and up?” 

Samantha knew that she really didn’t need to go looking for work.  God knows, she had plenty to do between teaching and research.  

“As you say, start making arrangements,” McGonagall said with a sweep of her arm. 

“Good, right, yes,” Samantha answered absently as she left, plans already forming in her mind. 

McGonagall laughed as Samantha left, glancing over her shoulder to find Dumbledore looking quite mirthful himself. 

“Severus getting married,” McGonagall said aloud to the empty room.  Knowing, of course, that no room in Hogwarts was ever really empty. 

“How long are you going to let him think you don’t know?” Dumbledore’s portrait asked. 

McGonagall shrugged playfully and gave him a conspiratorial smirk. 

“I’m not going to announce it at the Sorting Feast, if that’s what you’re thinking, Albus,” said McGonagall.  “The man’s earned his privacy.” 

“That he has,” Dumbledore said wistfully.  “That he has.” 

Dinner that evening was, as it had been for the past week, populated primarily by staff, some of the workers who were staying over in the castle as they rebuilt its ancient walls, as well as a handful of aurors who were stationed at Hogwarts to ward off reprisals from the remaining pockets of roaming Death Eaters; pockets that were, thankfully, beginning to be very few and far between.  Snape and Samantha had no plans for any kind of formal announcement and, by the time the tea and coffee had appeared on the table, thought that perhaps either no one had noticed or no one had thought the rock on Samantha’s finger was worth commenting on. 

_Perhaps_. 

As Samantha grasped the teapot her ring glinted prettily, and _very_ noticeably, in the candlelight.  If she had truly wanted no one to know she wouldn’t have worn the ring at all, but nothing prepared her for the rush of whispers that immediately circled the table. 

Flitwick, who had been sitting next to her, took it upon himself to ask the question everyone else had on their minds. 

“Is that from Severus?” He asked, even his tiny voice carrying over the now hushed audience they’d acquired. 

Samantha looked to Snape before answering.  He gave her a nearly imperceptible nod.  She turned back to Flitwick and nodded, unable to keep herself from smiling. 

“Congratulations!” He squeaked as the previously silent table burst into a whirlwind of noise and handshaking.  One of the workers, who had been in school with Snape but two years behind, even went so far as to give Snape a clap on the back.  Surprisingly, Snape took it with what counted as good grace as far as he was concerned.  Samantha was happy to see that he seemed more willing not so much to show his emotions in front of others, but rather to not withdraw or lash out when others expressed their own. 

As the commotion died down, McGonagall tapped her spoon against her teacup to get the attention of the hall. 

“We are all, of course, very happy for Severus and Samantha,” she began.  “While this news is not a secret, I would advise you not to spread it too enthusiastically.  The wizarding world is still not as safe as we would like it to be and there are some who would not receive this information gladly.” 

Samantha nodded her thanks to McGonagall.  She was grateful the headmistress had taken it upon herself to warn the others off gossiping about the newly engaged couple, rather than giving Snape leave to ruin the good will he’d recently earned through threats and intimidation.  

Walking arm in arm to her temporary rooms, Snape and Samantha strode leisurely through the castle.  

“Will you be moving back into your own rooms once they’ve been restored or will you be moving to the dungeons?” Snape asked carefully, keeping his gaze resolutely fixed on his feet. 

“I think it would be best if we wait until after we’re married,” Samantha answered honestly, hoping she hadn’t just ruined his plans.  “The students would talk.” 

Snape nodded, but kept his head down. 

“Severus, we’re engaged, you’re not allowed to doubt my sincerity,” said Samantha, only half joking. 

Finally lifting his head, he lifted one corner of his mouth in a half smile.  Samantha sighed mentally in relief.  It would take time to get it into his head that she wasn’t going to leave him, but he was, at least, on his way.  She didn’t blame him, of course.  Anyone with his history would be lucky to retain their sanity, much less any sense of mutual fidelity. 

“I don’t doubt you, Samantha,” he said at last, his voice almost a whisper.  “I doubt myself.” 

Samantha knew better than to simply wave away his feelings.  Navel gazer, he certainly was not, and as morose as he could be, he was not given to broadcasting his insecurities. 

“Then I shall have to do my best to help you see yourself as I see you,” said Samantha softly, stopping and turning to face him.  She caught his gaze and held it for a few moments before they turned and continued on their way to her rooms.  They walked in silence until they reached her door. 

Snape held Samantha’s hand in his own, his thumbs tracing the lines on her palm.  He seemed undecided about what he wanted to say. 

“I will…endeavor to be the man you see,” he said, flicking his eyes up to Samantha’s face. 

Knowing she had very little she could say in response to that, Samantha simply stood on her toes and kissed him softly.  It seemed to be answer enough for him, for Snape nodded when she pulled back, looking slightly surer of himself. 

“Crisis averted?” Samantha asked playfully. 

Snape hummed in response, not completely willing to admit the severity of the doubts that plagued him daily, especially where Samantha was concerned. 

Samantha nodded knowingly. 

“For now,” she answered for him.  She knew better than to think anything would ever be easy with a man named Severus.  


	3. Moving Forward

Samantha was still getting used to wearing an engagement ring again.  After Mark died, she was sure she would never wear one again.  My, how things had changed.  She looked up to find Snape, sat on the couch in his sitting room, writing lesson plans.  Though, given how thoroughly he intended to shake things up, it was little closer to plotting than not.  She watched a satisfied smirk come across his face and smiled to herself. 

Truth be told, she’d been worried.  Very worried.  They weren’t out of the woods yet, but for the first few weeks of Snape’s recovery, Samantha had feared not only that his physical state would show little improvement, but almost more so, that his mental state would be highly unstable.  There had been nightmares, which were to be expected given what he’d been through, but he seemed to be in higher spirits than at any time since she’d met him.  She only hoped this seemingly miraculous recovery wasn’t short lived, or, for that matter, a show put on by Snape in order to keep everyone at arm’s length.  As much as he’d changed, Samantha knew that a scant month out of the espionage business wouldn’t put an end to a lifetime’s worth of carefully cultivated behavior designed to preserve both life and limb. 

“So what have you got planned for them now?” Samantha asked.  She had draped herself over the adjacent armchair, doing a little of her own plotting for her students. 

Snape looked up at her and raised an eyebrow, but remained silent. 

“You really aren’t going to tell me?” 

He quirked his mouth and looked up to the ceiling, clearly only pretending to consider her question. 

“No,” he said with finality.  “I have never once been at the liberty of making my lesson plans entirely mine.  There was always _someone_ there to influence what I had to teach.  Minerva has given me free rein.” 

She accepted his answer, knowing it wasn’t because he didn’t value her opinion.  He simply wanted to take advantage of the luxury of finally allowing his own to dominate his teaching.  Though all of that leeway he’d been granted was probably more a result of McGonagall’s guilt than anything else (Samantha was fairly certain McGonagall would allow Snape to convert the Great Hall into a laboratory if he asked).  Hopefully, he would not hang himself with it. 

Samantha sighed and went back to her book on art history.  It was something she had always been interested in and something that seemed to be missing in the wizarding world.  Portraiture was, of course, a thriving business – something that could not be said of the Muggle art world – but there seemed to be less an emphasis on allowing the artists to speak through their work and much more, well, _literally_ allowing their subjects to do so. 

Feeling like she was being watched, she looked back up to Snape.  He made no show of pretending that he hadn’t been staring at her.  

“Yes?” She asked in her best impression of his voice. 

“And what new light are you going to shed on Muggle Studies for your students?” He asked sarcastically, though without malice.  Snape knew she had real plans for the subject. 

“Museum field trip,” she answered.  

“That narrows it down.” 

“The National Portrait Gallery, if you _must_ know,” she said, closing the book and setting it on the table. 

“You’re going to wrangle a group of Muggle-ignorant students through London?” 

Samantha shook her head. 

“ _Scottish_ Portrait Gallery,” she clarified.  “Edinburgh should be slightly less hectic.  And the history of portraiture in Scotland is much more interesting, I think.  Not to mention that these kids all spend seven years of their lives living in this country and most of them don’t know anything about it.” 

Snape was impressed.  And if he were honest himself, _he_ hardly knew anything about the country and he’d spent more than half his life in it. 

“If I were a masochist, I would try to time the trip with the Fringe, but I have frequently found myself overwhelmed by the experience just on my own.  I can’t imagine what it would be like with twenty students in tow.” 

Before Snape could ask what a fringe was and why the experience would be overwhelming, Samantha stood and stretched.  She’d been curled up in that armchair for at least an hour already.  His back hurt just thinking about it. 

“I’m going to be out tomorrow,” she informed him as she poured herself a cup of tea. 

“It is Sunday, is it not?” He asked, knowing Samantha had started going back to church the moment she’d been able.  After the first weekend, she had returned to the castle with red-rimmed eyes.  Snape thought the worst (had Father Matthews been killed in the midst of the war?), but she had simply been so overwhelmed at finally seeing him again that she’d cried for a solid twenty minutes. 

“Well, yes, that too,” she said absently, as she stirred the sugar into her tea.  “I meant for most of the day.  I need to move some things from my flat.  I will need to have my own quarters arranged before the students arrive.” 

For all intents and purposes, Samantha had been living with Snape for most of the summer.  Though due largely to the destruction of her rooms in the final battle, Samantha had also wanted to stay with Snape after coming so close to losing him.  Nice as it had been for the two of them to be able to have some time to themselves for once, she was still adamant that they would not officially share quarters until after they were married. 

“Your…flat?” He asked, not having forgotten the feelings that were stirred up when he had first learned of its existence. 

Samantha gave him a warning look.  She really did not want to have another fight about it. 

“Perhaps you would like to join me?” She offered carefully, only then realizing that she very much wanted him to go with her.  She had not, after all, been back to the flat since that fateful journey on the Hogwart’s Express – and the subsequent revelation that her husband had been murdered by Death Eaters.  Samantha was certain it would be more than a simple matter of packing up a few belongings. 

Snape opened his mouth immediately to respond, but thought better of it.  Did he want to see it?  Did he want to be in the space she’d shared with her late husband?  To be shown what he could not provide? 

Samantha sensed where his thoughts were leading him. 

“Severus,” she said softly, joining him on the couch.  She curled her legs up underneath her and took his hand.  “If you are adamant about not coming, then I won’t press you.  But, I think…I think I want you there with me.  For some time now, I’ve felt as though I’ve led two totally separate lives.  Even after I found out how Mark…died.  I would like to bring those two lives together.” 

Snape knew well what it felt like to lead a dual existence.  He also knew that he could not refuse her the chance for unity between the two halves.  He nodded his response and she squeezed his hand in thanks. 

“Father Matthews will be so pleased to see you,” she said.  

Snape looked over at her to see her eyes beginning to glisten.  In truth, he began to feel himself getting a little emotional.  The last time he had seen the priest was just before the war had well and truly begun.  They had been so anxious, so uncertain of their future.  His chest constricted at the mere memory of it.  It was in moments like this that he could scarcely believe they had both lived through it. 

The next morning found the couple, dressed in their Muggle best, walking arm in arm through the Entrance Hall on their way to the front gates.  Snape had acquiesced to Samantha’s rather ardent request that he wear the same three piece suit he’d had on for the Christmas service they had attended together.  And had even further allowed her to charm his green shirt to white, though not without some grumbling on his part that he owned _plenty_ of white dress shirts.  She had rightfully, he admitted, pointed out that his Victorian high collars were not exactly current fashion.  At least she was nothing short of adamant that he sport his pocket watch.  Snape was hard-pressed to think of a single day he hadn’t worn it since she’d given it to him. 

While Samantha had lost most of her clothes along with her quarters, she had managed to pick up a few things here and there and so wore a dress that she had purchased only the week before whilst in London for the day.  It was a designer dress and entirely too expensive.  Normally, Samantha didn’t put much stock into labels, believing, more often than not, one paid more for the name than any real style or quality.  Alexander McQueen, however, had always made her go a bit weak in the knees, and after having lived through, well, _everything_ , Samantha had decided to treat herself.  The knee length A-line black dress had long sleeves and a row of large, round silver buttons lined the edges of the otherwise hidden pockets.  Though the dark wool garment was more suited to fall, she reasoned that she had spent _far_ too much money on it to let it languish in her wardrobe for nearly two months.  And, to be honest, she felt _amazing_ in it. 

Once out to the gates, they apparated to the graveyard and walked to the church.  Snape had only ever been to the area twice, and both times had been well after nightfall.  He took in his surroundings a little more leisurely now – something he found he quite enjoyed doing shortly after his recovery.  Not that he completely let his guard down, but he now felt quite at ease taking an early morning walk around the lake with no purpose other than that he wanted to. 

The Mass was slightly less formal than the previous one he’d gone to, though there was still more than enough incense to go around.  The smell, to him, was something deeply associated with Samantha.  Every Sunday, she returned to the castle with the smell coming off her hair in waves.  Snape couldn’t imagine ever growing tired of it. 

Samantha knew that Father Matthews had spotted Snape in the congregation, for he had given her a small wink when she approached to receive communion.  She had not yet told him about the engagement and was unusually anxious for Mass to finish so she could share the happy news. 

As Father Matthews processed out of the church, he stopped at Samantha’s pew and whispered “sacristy” to her before continuing on his way out.  Clearly he wanted to have more than a few minutes to speak to the couple.  So, rather than exiting the church after the recessional hymn had ended, Samantha guided Snape up the central aisle toward the sanctuary.  Those who knew Samantha eyed the dark man walking beside her with interest.  They stepped out of the nave and into the transept to wait in front of the sacristy door for the priest to finish greeting the congregation. 

Samantha watched as he re-entered the church and strode quickly up the side of the nave with a wide smile on his face.  He was headed straight for Snape, who, Samantha noted, looked remarkably like a deer in headlights. 

“Severus,” Father Matthews said as he approached, pulling Snape into a hug.  Samantha couldn’t help but laugh, though she noted that Snape not only received the hug with good grace, but even managed to return it. 

“My son, I am so happy to see you,” he said with feeling after pulling back.  “After last time…” 

Snape merely nodded in response.  How could he forget? 

Father Matthews looked to Samantha and hugged her as well.  As he took both of her hands in his own, he stared in awe at her ring finger.  He looked up to the pair with the question clear on his face.  Samantha happily nodded her answer. 

“Oh, Samantha,” he said, hugging her again.  He settled for a handshake with Snape.  “When?” 

“We haven’t really discussed that yet,” said Samantha, looking to Snape.  “We’re still trying to get used to a…a normal existence.” 

Father Matthews chuckled in response.  Samantha gave him a lopsided smile. 

“Well, as normal as _we_ ,” she motioned to herself and Snape, “can get.  But I promise you that we will contact you as soon as pre-Cana comes into the picture.” 

“Well, I should hope you’d be in contact with me before that,” the priest said jokingly. 

Samantha rolled her eyes, but smiled at him all the same. 

“You know what I mean.” 

“I do, indeed,” he said warmly, his eyes twinkling.  

Samantha was very well aware of how trite Father Matthews’ joking could be sometimes, but she honestly wouldn’t have it any other way. 

“I have to get myself ready for the next Mass,” he continued, already pulling Samantha into a hug.  “But I am so happy the pair of you could make it down here to see me.” 

“I see you every weekend, Father,” Samantha pointed out. 

“Yes, well, I hope to see the _pair of you_ ,” he said pointedly as he shook Snape’s hand, “much more often.” 

“I’ll see what I can do,” said Samantha while Snape looked slightly anxious. 

“Until next week, then,” said Father Matthews as he opened the door to the sacristy. 

Samantha smiled and nodded.  The pair walked back to the graveyard to find a secluded spot from which they could apparate to Samantha’s flat.  Not knowing where he was going, he allowed Samantha to control the spell.  When their feet found terra firma again, Snape was none the wiser as to where in London it was that she lived. 

Walking out of the alcove into which they’d apparated, Snape immediately recognized the area as Chelsea.  A _very_ affluent part of Chelsea, to be sure.  Samantha led them along the Kings Road before turning down a terrace house-lined street.  He spied a bridge ahead, quickly identifying it at as the Albert Bridge.  Turning right, they walked along the sidewalk for less than a block before Samantha stopped abruptly in front of a building made of what was almost orange brick.  It stood out starkly against the white building next to it.  Snape looked around.  Surely they could not have reached their destination. 

“This is it,” said Samantha with little fanfare. 

Snape gaped.  He couldn’t help it. 

“You live on the _Embankment_?” He asked, catching sight of the Battersea Bridge further down the street.  

“I live at _Hogwarts_ , Severus,” Samantha said firmly.  “Once I clear this place out, it will be going on the market.” 

He continued to openly stare at the brick building while Samantha fished her keys out of her purse.  She always kept them with her, but had not used them in nearly two years. 

They entered into a marble foyer with a reception desk just past the hallway.  The man seated at the desk quickly stood. 

“Mrs. Collins,” he said immediately, with more than a little surprise coloring his voice and eyeing Snape with a bit more suspicion than was to Samantha’s liking. 

“Leonard,” she responded with a nod of her head. 

“The cleaners were in yesterday,” he informed her.  Samantha had been sure to keep a monthly service coming in to clean the flat while she was away.  It was no good having a place as nice as it was only to let it decay as it sat unused.  

“Good,” she said simply.  

The man nodded and stood uncertainly for a moment before sitting back down.  Though she knew it was objectively more desirable to live in a building with a reception desk, Samantha had always wanted to just walk into her flat without having to engage in small talk with anyone.  She found it terribly awkward. 

Walking through another set of doors, Samantha stopped in front of the first door on the left.  She wrapped her fingers around the wand concealed in her pocket and whispered the spell to take down her wards.  She then inserted the key into the lock and took a deep breath before unlocking the door. 

Snape looked over Samantha’s shoulder as she opened the door to find a small stairwell, though very nice.  They walked up a short staircase to find another hallway, beyond which Snape could see a much larger room that was clearly well-lit by natural light. 

“ _My_ entrance hall,” said Samantha with a sweep of her arm.  She put her keys down on the side table as she moved into the living room.  Snape noted that it was a practiced move, as if part of her daily routine.  He felt a hint of jealously, but quickly tamped it down.  It could serve no purpose. 

The living room had high corniced ceilings and tall windows lined the far wall.  It was light and airy, everything his rooms were not.  The wood floors gleamed and small rugs pulled together the pieces of furniture spaced throughout the room.  He was struck by the artwork on the walls.  These were no prints or posters, but originals.  They alone would cost a fortune, he reckoned. 

As Snape gazed around the room, his eyes landed on a piano, upon which were a number of framed Muggle photographs.  He was drawn to one, in particular; it could only have been her wedding day.  Samantha was dressed in a white lace gown and next to her was an older man, smiling broadly.  So this was Mark Collins.  Snape supposed he was handsome; he never really had an eye for these things.  He, unlike Snape, had no glaringly distinctive physical characteristics and was, from all outward appearances, exceptionally normal.  Snape concluded that he seemed unlikely to attract attention – good _or_ bad. 

Samantha moved to stand next to Snape.  She took his hand as he continued to study the photo, but she remained silent. 

“Do you…miss him?” He asked.  They had never spoken much of Mark and Samantha seemed keen to keep it that way. 

“Of course,” she answered quickly, though not unkindly.  “But not like I did.  And not like I thought I would.” 

Snape finally tore his eyes away from the photo to look at her.  He studied her face closely. 

“He will always be part of my life, Severus,” Samantha continued.  “It isn’t as though we had a falling out and divorced.  He died in what I thought was still the beginning of our marriage.  That doesn’t just…go away.” 

“No, it doesn’t,” said Snape quietly.  He could sympathize, but only to a point.  He knew what it felt like to lose someone you loved in tragic circumstances, however little that someone may have loved him back. 

“So we both have a past.  Let’s try to build on them.” 

Samantha gave Snape’s hand a squeeze before relinquishing her hold.  She had work to do. 

The couple ended up staying at the flat until after nightfall.  Samantha had gone through her clothes, taking much of what she would need through the coming winter.  Periodically, she would hold up a piece of art or various bric-a-brac and ask Snape his opinion on it.  After the fifth non-committal response, Samantha nearly unleashed hell on him. 

“Severus!” She said sharply.  “Someday,” she said, sweeping her arms over the room, “ _all_ of my stuff and _all_ of your stuff is all going to be in one _harmonious_ home.  Would you not like to have a say in what will be there?” 

Chastened, he dutifully offered comments on everything.  Truth be told, she – or _they_ , perhaps he should say, she had not decorated alone – had excellent taste and the money to indulge in it.  He had virtually no objections to voice on her belongings.  The few trinkets he’d kept over the years were of little more than sentimental value and no one had ever accused Severus Snape of sentimentality.  No, he was perfectly happy allowing her to dominate their shared space. 

Once satisfied, Samantha shrank all but the artwork.  Although she knew that the pieces would not be harmed by the magic, she just couldn’t bring herself to chance it.  They were thus left to be crated up and shipped when she found use for it all. 

“I will have to deal with my lab at some point,” she murmured to herself as they prepared to leave. 

“You have a lab _here_?” Snape asked. 

Samantha shook her head. 

“No, rented space,” she explained.  “I didn’t leave any ingredients when I left for Hogwarts, but I have equipment, research, books, and the like.  Mark and I were very social and had friends over quite often.  I didn’t want anyone coming upon anything and have to try to explain it.”  

Snape was bothered by her explanation, but didn’t know why.  It took him until they were back at the gates of Hogwarts, after having disapparated from an out of the way alley in Chelsea, to find words for it.  

“Did you not have any magical friends?”  He asked, seemingly out of the blue as he held the gate open for her. 

She cocked her head at him, confused. 

“When?” 

“You said that you kept all of your book and potions in your lab,” he clarified.  “So no one would find them.” 

“Oh, well…” 

She shrugged. 

“I guess I never thought much of it, but, no, I didn’t,” she answered honestly.  “There were some girls I had been friendly with at Salem, but we e-mailed or phoned when we wanted to talk.  There was not even the suggestion of owls or floo.  And they never visited, though, to be fair, I never visited them either.” 

“You never felt…stifled?” He further questioned, recalling vividly the way his mother’s magic had drained away from her under his father’s heavy hand. 

Samantha was silent for a moment as they continued to walk the grounds. 

“No,” she said at last.  “But it was my choice, not Mark’s.  Apart from brewing in my lab and a few limited bits of magic at home, I very much lived my day-to-day life as a Muggle.  I cooked, cleaned, and went about my life with little to no magic.  Almost no spell casting to speak of.” 

She stopped speaking, but Snape could sense she was not quite finished with what she wanted to say, though she looked very unsure about it. 

“I miss that sometimes.” 

Samantha cast a wary sidelong glance at Snape, hoping he wouldn’t take it the wrong way.  His face was set in hard lines, but she could tell no more than that. 

“It seems no matter where I am, I feel a bit disconnected from _something_ ,” she finished. 

Rather than walking straight to the doors, Snape had led them on a detour toward a bench by the lake.  Though Samantha was tired and wanted to just sit and drink some tea, she willingly followed.  Snape was not often in such contemplative moods and she was quickly learning to allow him as much time as he needed whenever he was. 

“I never miss Manchester,” said Snape emphatically as they settled on the bench. 

_“Manchester?”_ Samantha asked.  She had always assumed he was from London.  Did she really know so little about the man she’d agreed to marry?  

Snape nodded. 

“I still own the house in which I was raised.” 

“I would have never guessed,” said Samantha, leaning back against the bench and looking out over the lake.  It was dark and the moon’s reflection danced across the rippling water. 

“I inherited –” 

“I meant that you were from Manchester,” she said, smiling at him.  “You have absolutely no accent.  You could be a bloody BBC newsreader.” 

Snape sighed. 

“I worked very hard to rid myself of that accent.  I wanted to sound as little like my father as I could.” 

Samantha watched Snape closely for a few moments before speaking. 

“I wasn’t terribly close with my father either,” she said in a quiet voice.  It was not a topic she often ventured into. 

“Mine was an abusive alcoholic,” said Snape flatly.  Samantha could swear she heard a challenge in his tone. 

“It’s not a competition, Severus,” she chided him. 

Changing his tack, Snape asked, “Is that why you married someone so much older?” 

Samantha sighed loudly and rolled her eyes.  Clearly he’d chosen the wrong tack.  

_“No,”_ she answered with feeling, “it is not.  Mark’s age had nothing to do with why I married him.  I was not looking for a new _daddy_.” 

Snape wisely did not try to engage her on the subject.  She had obviously had enough of that for a lifetime. 

“What about your mother?” Samantha pressed forward, trying to get more out of him about his family. 

Snape took a deep breath in through his nose. 

“A pureblood,” he answered, though not quite knowing why he led with that fact.  “Eileen Prince.  She was disowned by her family when she married my father.” 

“What was she like?” 

Snape almost shrugged. 

“She…tried,” he said ambiguously.  “My father did not like magic and did not allow its use in the house.  I think my mother genuinely loved him at first, but by the time I was old enough to really understand, she…wasn’t really a person anymore, much less a witch.  He had beaten it all out of her.  After I found out what magic could do, I never understood why she didn’t just curse him.” 

“Women in abusive relationships often feel it’s what they deserve,” Samantha offered, hoping Snape didn’t think she was just regurgitating a psychology textbook at him.  “And that the man they’re with is savable, that he isn’t abusive when he isn’t, you know, insert problem here:  drunk, angry, and so on.  That if they could make sure they were good enough and did everything right, everything would be fine.” 

“Am I savable?” Snape asked almost in a whisper.  He didn’t look at her, preferring to stare at the lapping water on the lake’s bank. 

“You are not your father, Severus,” Samantha said gently, but firmly.  She leaned forward, trying to engage him.  “You have your moments, but there is no question of abuse.” 

“My father wasn’t abusive until I came along,” Snape countered.  “I know how little patience I have for my students as it is, what if we were to have a –” 

He stopped himself, not wanting to continue on that train of thought. 

“If we were to have a child,” Samantha started carefully, “You would be a wonderful father precisely for the same reason that you are sitting here worrying about it in the middle of the night.  You are aware of your family history and, from what I can tell, anxious to ensure it does not repeat itself.” 

Snape remained unconvinced of Samantha’s assurances, but let the matter pass.  It would be discussed again, he knew, if the look on Samantha’s face was anything to go by.  But for now, the only children he needed to be focused on were his Slytherins.  They were due back at the castle in just a few short weeks.  He needed to prepare himself for the resistance he would surely come up against in unveiling the new face of the House of Slytherin.

 

 

 

 


	4. Seventh Year Revisited

Severus Snape was taking much longer than usual to dress himself for dinner that evening.  He was dressed in his normal robes, but somehow seemed more uncomfortable than Samantha had ever seen him.  He looked in the mirror and pulled and shifted and fidgeted.  Samantha watched, bemused, wondering what had gotten into him.

When she finally asked him what was wrong, he gruffly responded, “Every bloody student in the hall tonight is going to know… _everything_.”

Samantha nodded; yes, that was it.  Harry Potter had declared in the Great Hall at that fateful battle to all and sundry where Voldemort’s erstwhile servant’s true loyalties had lain, and, more importantly, why.  The one piece of his past that Snape had begged Dumbledore to keep hidden was laid out for the entire wizarding world to examine and dissect. 

Coming to stand behind Snape, Samantha stood on the balls of her feet and rested her chin on Snape’s shoulder, looking at him in the mirror.

“Severus,” she said quietly, “how do you think they will judge you?  Knowing what they now know?”

“It isn’t a question of _judgment_ ,” he argued.  “I no longer have one shred of privacy.  Potter may as well have invited the whole school to traipse through my pensieve.”

Samantha truly could not argue with him on that point.  Though she had not been present in the Great Hall during those final moments, she had, of course, heard all the stories.  While the telling of Snape’s tale had worked fairly well to distract Voldemort, Potter’s assumption that Snape was already dead and, thus, not at risk of suffering the consequences of having his deepest secrets exposed, proved to be premature.

“If it makes you feel any better –”

“It probably won’t,” Snape grumbled.

“It won’t,” agreed Samantha.  “But it might make you forget how much you don’t like them knowing about your past when word gets out that we’re engaged.”

While they had no plans to formally announce the engagement, Snape had lived within the castle walls long enough to know exactly how long it took gossip to make the rounds from house to house.  By the end of the week, every last _Hufflepuff_ would know the greasy git of the dungeons found himself a girl.

Snape and Samantha walked in silence up to the Great Hall.  They could already hear the unearthly sounds of hundreds of students.  For some reason, it brought a smile to Samantha’s face.  The children certainly hadn’t sounded like that last year.

“I’m going to tell my house,” said Snape suddenly. 

“Tell them what?” Samantha asked, having no clue what was going on in his head.

“That we are engaged.”

_“Really?”_ Samantha wasn’t upset about it, merely surprised that he was planning to freely share personal information, even if it was his own house.

“I’m their Head of House, they have a right to know,” he said with conviction.  “I don’t foresee any objections.”

“Don’t you?” Samantha asked, quite aware she was doing very little else in the conversation.

“Why should they?” Snape said with a subtle shrug.  “You’re a member of their house, as well. They can’t object to your loyalties any more than they can _mine_ now.  And given much of the correspondence I have received over the summer, I suspect that those who _would_ object to our loyalties during the war are no longer attending Hogwarts.”

Samantha hummed her response.  If that was indeed the case, their house would be sorely lacking in numbers.  She worried that it could result in bullying against Slytherins, some of whom, she had to admit, had not done much to ingratiate themselves to the rest of the school, but she would feel truly sorry for any first years sorted into the serpent’s den this year. 

Entering the Great Hall, Snape was proved more than correct in his suspicions.  The Slytherin table was meagerly filled, especially when compared to the healthy numbers the other houses seemed to enjoy.  Samantha and Snape shared a quick, nervous glance, each verifying the other’s fears about the future of their house.

As the pair moved their way up the central aisle toward the head table, a noticeable hush came over the room.  Samantha could practically feel the weight of the stares.  As soon as the quiet was upon them, the whispering began.  Snape’s discomfort was palpable.  His pace had quickened markedly and Samantha struggled to keep up with him.

But as interested as the students had been in Snape, nothing could prepare them for the cacophony that buffeted the head table when Harry Potter and Hermione Granger entered the hall.  The two Gryffindors had decided – sans the third of their trio – to spend one relatively normal year at Hogwarts, studying for their NEWT’s and figuring out how to live life without the constant threat of death and dismemberment hanging over their heads (notwithstanding threats made by their Potions Master, of course).  Weasley, meanwhile, had gone into professional quidditch.  While not playing for his beloved Chudley Canons, he had secured a keeping position second-in-line to Oliver Wood for Puddlemere United.  No one had been terribly surprised that he’d chosen not to follow his friends back to school.  Even the Weasley matriarch had not put up a fight with Ron’s decision.  In the wake of Fred’s death, it seemed she was satisfied so long as her children were alive and well and never mind how many NEWT’s they got.

Harry had given Snape a nod before taking his seat at the Gryffindor.  Snape twitched in response.  Samantha hoped that Potter hadn’t been planning on trying to build any bridges between himself and the Potions Master.  Whatever Snape had felt for Lily, that didn’t change his hatred for James and it certainly didn’t change the fact that Snape, overall, didn’t particularly like his students.  Not _all_ of his disagreeable personality had been a result of the war.

Samantha looked over at the Slytherin table.  She had a feeling they would be in for a rude awakening.  From what little she could get out Snape regarding his plans, he was fully prepared to act as their advocate, for they would need one now more than ever, but he would no longer turn a blind eye to infractions or, more importantly, prejudice.

Just then, the great doors, which had been closed after the last of the older students arrived, were thrown open to reveal the incoming first years, Filius Flitwick leading them. 

That decision had not been made lightly.  McGonagall had wasted no time in asking Snape to serve as her deputy.  His response, however, had not been the warm acceptance for which she was hoping and likely expecting.  Snape’s tumultuous year as headmaster had left a sour taste in his mouth for the post.  He had no desire to be a heartbeat away from it.  He also reasoned that he could not have his attention diverted away from his Slytherins, even if Samantha _was_ the presumptive head and could help fill in when he was required to fulfill his role as deputy.  Samantha didn’t take it personally.  In fact, she was relieved when he informed her of his decision.  She did not envy him the task of navigating the house through this post-war period.

After Snape, Flitwick seemed an obvious choice.  He was the head of a house respected by all three of the others – one that also did not seem to suffer the same damage as the other three had – and a generally well-liked professor.  Upon his acceptance, Flitwick had, however, convinced Snape to retract his refusal to _ever_ consider the post, in favor of allowing himself a year or two to recover, put his house in order, and really think it over.

Flitwick lined the first years along the front step of the dais and climbed the stairs to stand next to the stool, upon which sat the sorting hat.  With a flick of his wrist, the scroll levitated in the air beside him and he began to call out the names.

There were _definitely_ fewer Slytherins sorted than the previous two Sorting Feasts she had been to, Samantha concluded.  She also noted that house relations was another area that would need work.  While the response from other houses to the scant handful of students sorted into Slytherin seemed better, it remained to be decidedly…tepid.  Yes, Snape – and the rest of the heads of house, she hoped – would have their work cut out for them.

Compared to previous years’ welcome from the late Albus Dumbledore, McGonagall’s introductory speech after the sorting was finished was positively sedate.  That was until she announced the new staff appointments.  For many of the younger students, the staff was a litany of war heroes.  Bill Weasley, keen to get out of the curse-breaking business with a baby on the way, would take the now curse-free Defense post.  He was, unsurprisingly, received uproariously by the Gryffindor table. 

Samantha, herself, was shocked by the enthusiastic response from the students when her name was called out by the headmistress.  She couldn’t help but wonder what Snape’s welcome would be.

“Once again taking up the post of Potions Master is Professor Severus Snape,” McGonagall said with little fanfare. 

She needn’t have done, of course, for the Chosen One himself picked up where she left off.  Adding to the already fervent applause from the Slytherins, Harry Potter stood with a determination well known to those around him and clapped enthusiastically.  The rest of his house soon joined him.

_“Gryffindors,”_ Samantha heard Snape mutter beside her.  She could practically feel him resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the dramatics.  In all honesty, however, it _was_ dramatic, and, as is so often _not_ the case, authentically so.  For those not personally acquainted with the man, and perhaps even for those who were, Snape’s story was dramatic from beginning to end; unrequited love, double agent, wounded war hero.  It certainly had all the hallmarks of a good story.

Snape half rose from his seat and gave a sharp nod, if only to end the scene.

The rest of the feast went on about as uneventfully as anything at Hogwarts can do.  After the meal was finished, the staff, along with help from the prefects, ushered the students back to their common rooms.  While Snape and Samantha exited the Great Hall together, she broke off to return to her rooms before Snape stopped her.

“Where are you going?” He asked as soon as he’d noticed she was no longer walking beside him.

“To my rooms,” she answered, confused.  They had a _very_ early morning staff meeting and she wanted nothing more than to go to sleep.

“I would like you to accompany me,” said Snape, adopting an overly formal manner as a gaggle of Hufflepuff girls scuttled past the couple.

Samantha moved toward him, so she could speak in a lower voice.

“Severus, I thought I was clear –”

Snape shook his head irritably.

“I would like you to accompany me when I address my house,” he clarified.

“Oh… _oh,_ ” Samantha breathed, starting to feel a little nervous.  She didn’t think he’d be telling his Slytherins _quite_ so soon. 

Samantha apprehensively followed Snape through the entrance to the Slytherin Common Room.  She hadn’t had much cause to visit the dungeon dormitory in her two years at the school, and so allowed her eyes to roam over the dark room, if only to avoid meeting the students’ curious eyes.

The older students quickly gathered themselves, silently sending a signal to the rest of the house that their attention was required.

“It will be a difficult year,” said Snape without preamble.  “We have lost many of our number and, as I am sure you noticed, we can have no expectation of being…uncritically…welcomed back into the fold.”

He swept his eyes over the room before continuing, gauging reactions.

“And nor should we be,” he stated bluntly.  Samantha was somewhat surprised by how forthright he was with his house.  Snape continued in slightly more delicate manner, “There are certain – habits – that need reordering.  We cannot expect to be considered a part of this school if we pretend we are above it.  And I want to be absolutely clear on this point: we are _not_.  Every house has their own traditions, which do not make them any less part of the whole school.  This is a lesson we must learn.  There is no house, no student at this school, any more or less deserving to be here because of their blood.”

And there it was: the word that had started and ended it all.  Not having a terribly long history with the House of Slytherin, Samantha knew she could only scarcely appreciate just how far out on a limb Snape was placing himself.  If they came with him, it would all be worth it.  They would have to hope that it would be done so willingly. 

Then, as if to lighten the mood, “Whether their academic performance still merits each and every student a place is yet to be determined.”

There was some light tittering throughout the room at that.  Even Snape allowed a smirk to cross his face.  He became serious once more and looked back to Samantha, who had been standing just behind his left shoulder.  He turned to address the room once more.

“I believe you all remember Professor Rhodes,” he said, Samantha took a step forward and saw Snape swallow thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing noticeably over his stiff collar.

The students nodded their acknowledgement and greeting toward her.  Snape very purposefully moved to stand just beside her, lightly placing his hand on the small of her back.  Given the reaction just that small movement received, he likely needn’t have said any more, having so clearly already deduced his intentions. 

Samantha absentmindedly fidgeted with her ring, the diamond catching some of the light from the fireplace.  There was, then, an audible gasp.  Snape raised an eyebrow, however, and the room was silent once more.

“I hardly think this now needs announcing,” he said sardonically, “but your assumptions are, in fact, correct.  Professor Rhodes and I are engaged to be married.”

There seemed to be what could almost be described as a burst of restrained excitement that swept through the common room.  Samantha was relieved to see that the reaction, over all, appeared to be positive.  _Very_ positive, even.

“I would ask that you not freely broadcast this information,” Snape continued sternly.  “It is not a secret to be kept, merely…a question to be answered.”

While this rather cryptic instruction would likely have been lost on the other houses, Snape’s Slytherins knew exactly what he meant.  They were free to verify the truth if asked, but not volunteer the information.

The eldest Slytherin prefect, a seventh year named Benedict Vaisey – a truly Slytherin name, if Samantha had ever heard one – stood to address his Head of House.

“Congratulations, sir,” he said, sounding quite like he meant it.  He nodded to Samantha.  “Miss.”

Samantha smiled and nodded in return.  There was a light smattering of polite applause at the exchange.  She looked up at Snape to find him already studying her own reaction. 

“Good, this is good,” she said very quietly.  Snape hummed his agreement.   

The next morning came far too quickly for Samantha’s liking.  She had never been a morning person, so the very thought of a 6:30 staff meeting was nothing short of anathema.  Given the fact that the coming term was sure to hold so much uncertainty and transition, however, she recognized it as a necessary evil.

She and Snape reached the corridor outside the staff room at almost the same moment.  She smiled at him in greeting; he merely raised an eyebrow, but was gallant enough to hold the door open for her before following her into the room.  Samantha didn’t take his silence personally.  He still suffered from insomnia and had likely gotten even less sleep than she had.  He was also never particular prone to conversation in the morning, unless forced.

Once the door to the staff room was closed, however, and they were safe from any early rising students, Snape made the quite bold move of giving Samantha a quick, fairly chaste, kiss.  In full view of the teachers who had already assembled themselves, no less.  They were at least gracious enough to try to pretend like they weren’t staring when the couple parted.

“Why, Severus, you shock me,” said Samantha playfully.

He grunted in response.

“Don’t get used to it,” he said gruffly.  Samantha could only laugh.

Though she tried to play it off, Samantha was inwardly squealing in excitement.  She bit her lip to at least try to maintain her composure as she followed him to the table in the center of the room.  He really was making one hell of an effort to at least act like a normal human being.  As Samantha watched Snape sip his coffee and pull out a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ morning edition from the pile in the center of the table, the one emotion she felt more than anything else was relief.  All of their wistful, oftentimes pessimistic, talks during the war of being a normal couple with a future to look forward to suddenly seemed to actually materialize into some kind of reality.

McGonagall called the meeting the order the moment she stepped foot in the staff room.  They had a lot to get through and less time than was ideal in which to do it.  Normally, their start of term staff meeting would have taken place before the students even arrived.  The rebuilding efforts, however, had pushed everything else aside until term had actually begun. 

The first thirty minutes of the meeting consisted solely of timetable complaints better taken up in private with the headmistress and administrative issues that had no bearing on anyone other than the person asking the question.  Samantha’s sleep-deprived brain had to keep reminding her of how _necessary_ this evil was.

“Now we have an agenda item suggested by Professor Rhodes,” McGonagall continued, rather louder than she’d been speaking before.  It was a shock to Samantha’s system.  For a moment, she’d not realized whose name McGonagall had said.  Another moment went by of confusion and panic – had she suggested an agenda item?  When had she done that?  _What_ had she said?

“Inter-house –” McGonagall prompted before being cut off by Samantha’s rather noisy moment of realization.

“Inter-house relations,” said Samantha, the triumph and relief in her voice an odd note to all those not privy to her inner monologue.  “Yes, um, well, I’m sure this is something we’ve all been thinking about in recent months.  I wanted to suggest that we think about planning an event – or multiple events – that would work toward this goal; something that gets the students to mingle with each other.”

“Quidditch usually does the trick,” Hooch spoke up, sounding mildly affronted.

“Well, yes and no,” Samantha countered.  “As it stands, it does the trick in getting all the other houses to band together against Slytherin.”

A murmur of dissent went through the room.  Samantha bristled in response.

“None of you have _ever_ noticed that when, say, Hufflepuff plays Slytherin, suddenly three-quarters of the Great Hall is wearing yellow?”

Samantha glanced at Snape.  His face looked to be warring between a grimace and a smirk.

“I _am_ trying not to turn this into a question of begging the other houses to play nice with Slytherin,” Samantha continued, “but in practice, that is what inter-house relations has come to mean.”

“Severus?” McGonagall said.

He pursed his lips and breathed out heavily through his nose before speaking.

“She is right, of course,” he began.  “My house is going to need – support – this year, whether they want it or not.  Some amount of – ah – cooperation from the rest of the school would be…welcome.”

The staff sat in stunned silence for over a minute.  Little though he actually said, they realized what his meaning really was: Severus Snape was asking for help. 

“Did you have any specific suggestions, Samantha?” McGonagall asked, the first to recover from the shock.

“As a matter of fact,” Samantha said, looking directly at Madam Hooch.  “Quidditch _had_ crossed my mind.  While we didn’t have quidditch at Salem, we did play some Muggle sports that didn’t require the same acreage.  Every year, we would have a faculty versus student game.  If we had a quidditch match like that, _all_ the houses could provide students to play on the same team, rather than _against_ each other.”

 “It is an interesting idea,” said McGonagall thoughtfully.  “But do we have enough staff to field a side?”

“I think the war taught us that we’re all a little stronger than we thought,” Samantha answered.  “However, if we find there are holes, we could always use alumni to fill the gaps.”

“A lot of our alumni play professional quidditch,” Flitwick offered without comment.

“A ringer?” McGonagall asked, her competitive streak rearing its head.

“Or five,” said Samantha with a smirk.  Snape snorted beside her.

“Shall we put it to a vote?” McGonagall asked, sitting back in her chair.  “Those in favor?”

Everyone, but Binns, predictably, raised their hand.

“Those against.”

One ghostly appendage was defiantly thrust into the air.

“The ayes have it,” said McGonagall.  “We’ll need to calendar this by the end of the week and work on how to get the students to put together a team without playing favorites.”

“Each captain chooses two of their own players out of those who make this year’s house teams,” Samantha blurted out.  She tried to make it sound as if it were something she’d thought of off the top of her head, but, truth be told, she’d spent half the summer thinking about it. 

“Before announcing their selections,” she continued at a breakneck pace, “the captains have to put their choices up to a vote amongst themselves.  Majority rules.  If the vote is split and deadlocked, the deciding vote will rest with an as-yet Hogwarts alumnus who will serve as team manager.  If a player is voted down, the captain can offer another name.  This will ensure that the houses are equally represented.  It should also ensure that they don’t end up with a bench full of beaters.” 

“Alright, Granger,” Samantha heard Snape mutter.  He hadn’t meant for everyone to hear it, but it was clear they had.  Even McGonagall was struggling not to laugh at the expense of her star Gryffindor.

“Well,” McGonagall said, still trying to control her amusement.  “I suggest we all put some thought into other ways we can promote inter-house relations before next week’s meeting.  We’ll also discuss this further at this evening’s heads meeting.”

Samantha saw Snape frown at the reminder of the Heads of House meeting.

She added pointedly, “I also suggest we put some time in on the quidditch pitch.”

With that the meeting was at an end.  The staff filed out of the room, most headed toward the Great Hall for a quick breakfast prior to the start of their first classes for the day.

“Do you even own a broom?” Snape asked Samantha as they moved with the throng.

Samantha glared at him.

“No,” she answered honestly.  _“Do you?”_ She asked, thinking she’d caught him out in his hypocrisy.

“Yes.”

“See – oh,” she said lamely.  “You played on the quidditch team, didn’t you?”

“I played on the quidditch team,” he confirmed, sounding far too smug for Samantha’s liking.

_“Whatever,”_ Samantha breathed sarcastically, as she sped up to walk ahead of him.

She should have known better than to try to outpace him, for he easily lengthened his stride to walk beside her. 

“Git,” she muttered out of the corner of her mouth as they entered the Great Hall.  Snape’s mouth twitched, but he made no retort.  Knowing that she didn’t like to appear out of her depth or in any way inadequate, he seemed content to simply allow Samantha to stew in the knowledge that he undoubtedly knew far more about quidditch than she did.

“You can stop looking so smug, old man,” Samantha said when they had seated themselves.  “One of us is capable of peak physical condition.” 

Snape snorted.

“ _One of us_ is _in_ peak physical condition.”

Two things happened at this point that no student in recorded Hogwarts history could ever have predicted, much less think they’d see in their lifetime: Professor Snape getting punched in the arm so hard he nearly fell out of his chair and then laughing so hard at the assault and the venomous glares of the woman who’d done it that he _did_ fall out of his chair.


	5. Research Resumed

Samantha’s first Muggle Studies class of the day was a sizeable group fourth years.  She had made a point of demanding that she teach all four houses in one class, splitting the years up to NEWT level in two while maintaining equal house distribution.  Nearly every other class the students took was split with Gryffindors and Slytherins in one group and Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs in another.  While she admired the somewhat naïve optimism in attempting to pair the two most volatile houses in one class, Samantha argued that the addition of the other two houses would actually go a long way in allowing students from those polar opposites to interact with each other, thanks to the buffer provided by what she saw as the cooler heads of the student body.  Neither Snape nor McGonagall had been particularly persuaded by this argument, but she had persisted and gotten her way in the end.  Even if it had produced a minor scheduling crisis. 

The fourth years themselves would be an interesting group, particularly for Samantha.  They had not been old enough to take Muggle Studies when she had started, but they had experienced her Potions class the year before, as well as the persona she had been forced to adopt.  They had also, unfortunately, experienced Alecto Carrow’s Magical Hierarchy.  It was perhaps for the best that the classroom had been destroyed in the battle, thus allowing for an entirely new space to be built; one that held no memories of belittlement, prejudice, and torture. 

“This is your syllabus,” she began, passing out stacks of paper to the students sitting in the front row.  “Take one, pass it back.” 

She allowed the papers to circulate before continuing. 

“I think it’s safe to say this won’t be the same as last year,” she said with a wry grin.  The students looked as though they weren’t sure if they were supposed to find her comment amusing. 

“Moving on,” Samantha continued, picking up her own copy of the syllabus.  “You will see that I’ve divided the term into disciplines, rather than time periods.  We will, of course, be paying attention to historical context along the way, but I think that using these different areas of Muggle culture as our main focal point will be much more useful, and, hopefully, much more interesting for all of you.” 

Samantha tapped her wand on the board, where the various disciplines she’d chosen snaked their way across in what she freely admitted was her terrible handwriting.  They would be spending an entire month on the arts and another on literature.  Also included were science and technology, politics, and, what she felt had been all but ignored topics of discussion, religious studies and philosophy.  There was some incredibly optimistic piece of her that hoped that all of these areas combined could lead them – _especially_ her older students, she hoped – to fruitful discussions on morality and ethics. 

“Professor,” came a boy’s voice from the middle of the room.  Samantha saw a waving hand accompany it. 

“Yes?” She answered, moving so she could actually see the student in question.  His blue and silver striped tie gave her his house, she would have to put some effort into remembering his name. 

“I heard there would be a field trip.” 

The other students looked up at her expectantly.  Samantha smiled and nodded her head knowingly.  That little bit would have gotten around, wouldn’t it?  She had not even had classes with the older students yet, but permission forms had been sent out for parents to sign prior to the start of term, so it was clear they’d shown up already gloating that they would be allowed to go.    

“Unfortunately, it will only be for OWL students and older,” she answered. 

There were the expected groans in response.     

“I know, I know.  But it gives you an excellent reason to take this class next year, doesn’t it?” 

In actual fact, Samantha had planned on having outings for _all_ her students.  Snape had been the voice of reason.  She resisted at first, but had to agree that reserving trips for her upper years could save her sanity _and_ give the students some incentive to stick with the subject. 

“As you can see,” she continued through the syllabus, “You’re going to have twelve inches due each week at the start of class on the readings _for that week_.” 

There was another round of groans at that.  Samantha plowed through, fairly ignoring her students’ frustration.  Compared to her older students, she was letting the fourth years off easy. 

“You will also each have a report to do for the end of term, due the week prior to exams.  I want you to have your topic chosen by the start of the Christmas holiday.” 

It wasn’t much work by Samantha’s standards, but she was well aware that Muggle Studies had a certain reputation as very soft subject and one that required little to no effort on the part of those who took it to pass.  While she wanted to encourage more students to take the course, she was also bound and determined to strengthen the curriculum. 

Having entirely forgotten to take role at the start of class, Samantha pulled her attendance book out and began to call names.  As she went through the roster – Thomas Hargaden, _that_ was the Ravenclaw’s name – she noticed some motion out of the corner of her eye.  A couple of girls, one Ravenclaw and one Gryffindor, who had been sat together at the same double desk, were looking at something, though Samantha couldn’t identify exactly what.  Without looking up from her book, she strode toward then and snatched the item out of the Gryffindor’s hand.  The girl squeaked and instinctively made to grab for it, but Samantha was already making her way back to the front of the room.  With her backed still turned to the students, she glimpsed at it – the new issue of _Witch Weekly_ – rolled her eyes, and tossed it onto her desk before sitting back on the same.  Samantha continued reading names as if nothing had happened. 

“You will get your magazine back, Miss Adams,” said Samantha to the Gryffindor after she’d finished her roll, “at the end of the day.” 

The girl, who had clearly thought she would get her property back at the end of the period, folded her arms over her chest and sulked.  Samantha gave her a stern look. 

“I _know_ Professor Snape does not any more appreciate distractions in his classroom than I do in mine,” she warned her, knowing that the fourth year Gryffindors were in Potions after her class. 

Both girls’ cheeks went bright red, a somewhat confusing reaction, but Samantha wrote it off as embarrassment over having gotten caught. 

The remainder of the period went rather well, Samantha thought.  Their starting point was Enlightenment politics, with social contract theory opening the unit.  She was sure Hume, Locke, and Rousseau would go over plenty of heads, but, in her mind, that was no reason to avoid it.  It was also a necessary foundation to her unit on Scottish history and art. 

Samantha was rather delighted to find that the students seemed reasonably engaged in the material.  It was not something, especially for those not raised in Muggle homes, they had any experience with before.  Perhaps recent events were on her side in this, as the interconnection of politics and social relationships seemed more important than ever.  Hard to believe, though it was, that fourth years could have made that mental leap, they seemed to intuitively grasp the relevance to their world.  It was a good start. 

The magazine Samantha confiscated lay forgotten on her desk through her next period, as permission forms from eager OWL students had ended up strewn over its surface after a flurried exchange of signed forms for syllabi.  

In the break before the start of lunch, Samantha found the magazine once again and sat down for a quick read.  She couldn’t remember if she’d ever actually looked at _Witch Weekly_ , but as she flipped through the pages, she recognized the same kind of tawdry “journalism” that passed for women’s magazines in the Muggle world.  

Samantha mindlessly turned pages, not really taking in what she was reading, before some kind of awareness or familiarity pricked the back of her consciousness.  She stared down at the glossy page she’d just turned to, but found nothing warranting the sensation.  Turning back a page, she stared, jaw dropped, at the two page spread.  There were photos – lots of them – of Snape, of herself, and of the two of them together.  It was nothing inappropriate, of course, but it seems they had attracted the attention of some enterprising – and well-hidden – photographers during one of their handful of visits to Diagon Alley over the summer.  There was an enlarged photo of her hand, with her engagement ring in full view; another of she and Snape walking into Potage’s, her arm tucked into the crook of his elbow; and yet another of Samantha as she positively dragged Snape into Fortescue’s, laughing at him as he scowled at her.  There were still more from before the war, the immediate aftermath of the battle when Snape had been brought out from the Whomping Willow, and one of the pair taking one of their daily turns through the grounds during Snape’s convalescence. 

Even more ridiculous than the very existence of the photos themselves, much less that the editors of the magazine thought they were worth the paper they were printed on, were the captions that accompanied them (“eligible bachelor,” indeed, those harpies would never have looked at him if his history with Lily had not come to light).  Samantha couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all.  She doubted Snape would find it quite so amusing.  

She stared at the page for a few more minutes.  Now that she really looked at the photos, some of them were, actually, quite lovely.  Worth putting in a frame, even.  She wondered if she were to contact them if they would… 

The bell rang, signaling the start of the lunch and the end of her musings.  Marking the page with a quill, she slid the magazine into a folder before heading down to the Great Hall.  

As she passed McGonagall’s chair, heading toward her own, Samantha dropped the _Witch Weekly_ in the headmistress’ lap.  Snape had not yet made his appearance, so she perched on the edge of his chair, facing McGonagall. 

“I took this off one of the fourth year Gryffindors in my class today,” Samantha explained. 

McGonagall frowned. 

“Which one?” 

“That is not particularly important,” she said, leaning over to flip the magazine open to the page she’d marked.  “This, however…” 

McGonagall gasped as she took in the photos. 

“Has Severus...” McGonagall trailed off, gesturing toward the pages. 

Samantha shook her head. 

“I rather doubt he should.” 

“Doubt he should what?” Came Snape’s voice from over Samantha’s shoulder.  She winced.  He must have come in through the staff entrance. 

“You’re in my chair,” he said gruffly. 

“That I am,” Samantha answered without moving.  Snape stepped around the back of the chair to stand just behind McGonagall’s seat.  He crossed his arms over his chest and tried to look imposing. 

“You’re in my chair,” he said again, a little more insistently. 

“Alright, Rain Man,” she muttered as she stood up and moved to her own seat next to his. 

Snape ignored her, though he was quite pleased with himself for recognizing the reference, and sat down.  He waited until Samantha had settled herself before speaking. 

“Now, what do you doubt I should do?” 

Samantha grimaced. 

“Well…” Samantha began. 

McGonagall _helpfully_ slid the magazine across the table toward Snape.  He visibly recoiled at it before he focused his attention and realized what it was he was looking at.  Gingerly, he picked up the corner so he could look at the cover.  When he saw that it was, in fact, a copy of _Witch Weekly_ , he instantly dropped the page and wiped his fingers on the palm of his hand.  

“Why…is this here?” He asked, sounding less furious and far more at a genuine loss as to why anyone could possibly be interested. 

Frankly, Samantha was relieved.  She had thought he might fly into a rage and immediately run to the owlery to send them a howler. 

“It’s not as if you’re an unknown wizard, Severus,” Samantha said with a shrug.  As odd as it was to see it in print, she didn’t doubt that people _were_ interested. 

“But why is it _here_?” He repeated, pointing down at the magazine, taking as much care not to touch it as one would a petri dish of dragon pox.  The photo of himself scowled up at the hovering finger. 

“Oh, well, it seems you’re a bit of a…” 

“Bit of a _what_?” He asked smoothly. 

“A catch,” McGonagall interjected, perhaps too loudly, leaning over toward them. 

Samantha smothered a laugh behind her hand. 

“Is that what this is about?” Snape demanded, still pointing at the collage of photos. 

“Believe it or not, Severus, it is,” Samantha answered.  “After everything happened and everything about…your past was…revealed, it seems women have gone a bit…starry eyed.” 

“For a murderer whose obsession with a dead woman turned him into an emotional cripple?” He said in a flat, quiet voice. 

Samantha fought the urge to hug him right there in the Great Hall.  That wasn’t the response he wanted anyway, and she knew it.  She’d heard him speak of himself often enough in such terms.  It was best to just let him say it and be as supportive as she could along the way. 

“There is nothing about me to be romanticized,” Snape declared with finality as he sat back in his chair. 

“Severus,” said Samantha quietly, placing an unobtrusive hand on his arm.  She remained silent after that.  It was enough that he allowed her hand to rest on his arm undisturbed for a full minute. 

Once the air seemed to clear, they got on with eating their lunch and talking about how their classes had gone thus far.  Samantha was starting to get used to these dark interludes with Snape.  With his history, it was no good pretending he would be patched up and perfect the moment Voldemort had been dispatched from this world.  

The rest of the day went fairly uneventfully, or so Samantha had thought.  That evening in the Snape’s private lab, Samantha was hard at work trying to get her research back on track.  She could hear the door to the office bang open and shut and she braced herself for the same violence to be inflicted on the lab door.  She was not disappointed. 

“How was your day, dear?” She asked brightly as he shrugged out of his teaching robes. 

“ _That_ magazine is – how did so many – it’s everywhere!” He growled, sitting down on a stool opposite her.  

Snape heaved a great sigh, allowing himself to calm down.  He seemed to focus then and looked more carefully at the stack of books sat on the table next to Samantha’s notebook. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Research,” she answered simply. 

He glared at her for good measure before responding. 

“I gathered as much,” said Snape with a roll of his eyes.  “Is this anything to do with lycanthropy?” 

Samantha eyed Snape warily. 

“Yes.” 

“And how do you propose to test any of these theories?” Snape asked, though not unkindly.  It was, he thought, a legitimate question. 

She shrugged uncertainly. 

“Not entirely sure yet,” mumbled Samantha as she looked down at her notes.  “I just have to be careful about who I ask.” 

“Well, obviously.  The Dark Lord’s former –” 

“No, that’s not what I meant,” Samantha interrupted, leaning her chin on her hand.  “Or not only what I…I meant, I have to be careful how I phrase what I’m doing.  The ones who were bit are perfectly fine with calling it a cure, with _wanting_ a cure, but werewolves who are born as such, they tend to see what I’m doing as an insult.” 

Snape’s furrowed eyebrows spoke volumes. 

“It’s part of their identity, Severus,” Samantha tried to explain.  “They view themselves as…as just as much werewolf as they are witch or wizard.  It would be akin to trying to ‘cure’ someone of their magical abilities.” 

_That_ hit a chord with him.  Having a father such as he’d had, Snape couldn’t help but sympathize with that outlook.  _To a point._   Werewolves had and, he suspected, would always inspire the kind of fear in him that virtually no other living creature could. 

“But surely they realize the risk their transformation poses for the rest of us,” he reasoned.  

“With Wolfsbane, that isn’t as serious an issue,” said Samantha with a shrug.  “They aren’t harmless, of course, but nowhere near what they would be otherwise.  And there is a worrying trend that seems to suggest that some werewolves view even Wolfsbane as oppressive.” 

Snape felt himself get slightly anxious.  His gut reaction was to say the Ministry should force werewolves to take the potion.  But that was a completely untenable solution – even from a purely practical standpoint.  It was a devilishly difficult potion to brew, of which only a handful of witches and wizards were capable.  It also smacked of the same kind of domination that Voldemort had sought to impose.  Werewolves, like giants, were to be wielded as weapons.  Snape himself knew well what it felt like to be used as such; Dumbledore and Voldemort had _both_ done it, in their own way.      

Samantha seemed to sense where his thoughts were taking him, for she placed a hand on his. 

“So…how many copies of _Witch Weekly_ _did_ you confiscate today?” She asked with a grin.  It might annoy him, but at least it would pull him back from the path his line of thought had been going down. 

He raised an eyebrow and stood.  When Samantha drew a breath to speak, he put up his hand to forestall her.  Opening the door to the lab, he slid his wand out of his sleeve and gave it a wave.  A comically large pile of magazines zoomed their way into his waiting arms.  He dumped them all unceremoniously onto the table.  It had to have been at least twenty copies. 

“Severus,” Samantha got out between laughs.  “You only had two classes after I saw you!” 

_“I know,”_ he grumbled. 

“It had to have been organized,” said Samantha, still fighting her giggles.  “Some kind of prank.  There’s no way it could be as random as that.” 

“One of the students?” He suggested. 

“I’m not sure,” Samantha said with a hum.  “To be perfectly honest, the only ones I can think of are, well, _dead_.  Other than McGonagall, of course, but she gave no indication of ever having seen it before when I showed her at lunch.  And she’s not that good an actress.” 

Snape harrumphed moodily and pointed his wand at the stack, intending to destroy one or more copies of the offending _literature_.  It would, if nothing else, make him feel better.  His well-aimed, but silent, _Reducto_ , however, did exactly the opposite of what he’d wanted. Rather than blasting the magazines to pieces, they multiplied.  Quickly.  So quickly, in fact, that the copies quickly overwhelmed the table and felt to the floor, where they continued to multiply. 

Samantha, who was nearly doubled over in laughter by this point, was overtaken by a wave of multiplying magazines and transported across the room.  She grabbed Snape’s arm as she passed him and pulled him out of the room before they could be covered by the gaudy pink pages.  She closed the door to the lab behind her and leaned against the door, still laughing so hard there were tears running down her cheeks. 

_“Filius!”_ Snape shouted at no one and nothing in particular. 

Laughing and shaking her head, Samantha gulped in breath to speak, “There’s no one else who could have done it.” 

Snape looked down at Samantha, who was now leaning bonelessly against the door to the lab.  His eyes flicked upward at the door handle, warily.  He hoped the spell would stop now that they were out of the room.  There were a fair few items in his lab that he didn’t want destroyed in the crush. 

“Go floo him, Severus,” said Samantha, shooing him toward the fireplace.  “He’ll fix it now that the joke has been made.” 

“You hope,” he muttered, but went to the fireplace all the same. 

In the end, Flitwick had readily accepted responsibility.  Perhaps even eagerly so.  He’d had to practically charm his own mouth shut during lunch so as not to give the game away, but had so thoroughly enjoyed himself through the entire execution of the prank that he couldn’t wait to share his amusement. 

Snape had taken the whole incident with remarkably good grace.  That it had been Flitwick probably helped, as Snape knew there was no ill will behind the harmless prank.  Samantha was fairly sure a student would not have gotten off quite so easily, no matter what house they belonged to. 

Though, after Flitwick had set Snape’s lab to rights and joined the couple for a cup of tea, Samantha learned that not even the Deputy Headmaster was getting off scot-free.  Turning back from the fireplace where Flitwick had just flooed back to his rooms, Samantha saw Snape seated on the couch looking as pleased with himself as she thought him capable. 

“What did you put in his tea, Severus?” Samantha asked, standing before him with her hands on her hips. 

Snape shrugged, his face a mask of poorly feigned innocence. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.  I would never poison a staff member.” 

_“Poison?!”_ Samantha shrieked. 

Snape put his hands up in defense. 

“It’s not poison,” he said, pulling Samantha down to join him on the couch. “Per se.” 

“Severus,” Samantha warned. 

“It isn’t,” he insisted.  “Filius may just find tomorrow that his _wit_ is not as razor-sharp as he imagines.” 

“You’re incorrigible,” Samantha said with a smile. 

“I think you’ll find it’s ‘eligible’,” Snape retorted.  “Or so they say.” 

“So they say,” she repeated.  She leaned back into the couch and was silent for a moment. 

“I guess it’s all out there now, isn’t it?” She said at last. 

“What is ‘out there’?” Asked Snape. 

Samantha gestured to her ring. 

“I suppose so,” he offered, not sure why it mattered. 

“People are going to be asking…for a date,” Samantha said carefully.  “For a wedding.” 

“Oh,” was Snape’s response.  He shifted on the couch.  

“I’ve made you nervous, haven’t I?” Samantha asked, sitting up and turning to look back at him. 

“Why should I be nervous?  _I_ asked _you_ to marry me,” he said.  “If I had wanted to avoid a wedding, it was a pretty poor way to go about it.” 

Samantha settled back into the couch again.  She was inordinately pleased, but wasn’t quite sure why.  She hadn’t doubted his sincerity in his proposal, but, somehow, she _had_ doubted his desire to get married sooner rather than later.  It was a feeling that perplexed her.  Severus Snape was not a man to do anything by halves, why should this be any different?  Perhaps it was all the talk of Lily in the press.  Before his past had come out, it had not gotten to her; never made her doubt Snape or his feelings.  But it was, in fact, those feelings for another woman that had helped them win the war and Samantha was ashamed to say she felt the cruel twist of jealousy at the thought of it.  She knew it was a selfish and illogical reaction, but it was there, nonetheless. 

She turned to look at Snape, who quickly turned his gaze to the fireplace. 

“Are you…nervous?” He asked, keeping his eyes on the dancing flames.  Now he sounded unsure. 

“No,” she replied honestly.  “Just thinking.” 

Snape looked at her then, but didn’t respond.  It was probably for the best, she was entirely too tired to get into all of _that_. 

It was with that thought that Samantha realized just how tired she was.  She glanced at Snape.  He looked it, too.  Between classes and Flitwick’s little prank, they’d had quite enough excitement for the day.    

“I’m going to my rooms,” Samantha announced as she stood. 

Taking a pinch of floo powder from the mantle, she turned to find Snape standing just behind her.  She jumped and dropped the fine powder on the floor.  

“Would you try not to do that?” She asked, her tone clearly suggesting it wasn’t the first time and nor did she think it the last time he would sneak up on her. 

“Old habits,” he said quietly before kissing her soundly. 

“Well, you can keep doing _that_ ,” Samantha said a little breathlessly before reaching for the floo powder again. 

She tossed the powder into the fireplace and watched the flames go green. 

“Good night, Severus,” she said, stepping into the pleasant warmth. 

“Samantha,” he answered with a stately nod. 

Samantha went to bed that night with her head buzzing, of a fairly pleasant sort for once.  She drifted off to sleep, wondering vaguely what style of wedding dresses would be in fashion in the spring.


	6. Out For Blood

A week into term found both staff and students hitting a kind of rhythm.  The early mornings became just a little easier, though some would simply never get the hang of it.  

One of that latter number grunted into his coffee as his fiancée expressed her pleasure at how well her first week had gone.  Snape always disliked mornings, but he especially disliked having to attend breakfast in the Great Hall on Saturday mornings.  After having spent more than half his life doing so, one would have thought he would have come to terms with it.  Mornings and Severus Snape, however, had never found any terms upon which to agree.  Snape stared into his coffee for perhaps too long.  When he came to his senses, he looked to his right to see Samantha glaring at him, lips pursed. 

“Have you heard a damn thing I said?” She asked, gripping her fork tightly. 

Snape stared at her hand and swallowed.  He opened his mouth to speak, but was saved by the arrival of the morning mail. 

Two owls flew directly for Snape and Samantha, dropping almost in tandem two identical envelopes.  Samantha was the first to pick hers up, her stomach churning as she saw the seal on the back.  Her hand shook as she broke the Wizengamot’s seal with a fingernail. 

Snape had only once before received an envelope very much like the one that now sat in front of him.  It was just after the Dark Lord had been defeated for the first time and he’d subsequently found himself spending nearly a month in Azkaban before the court had gotten around to hearing his case. 

“Severus,” Samantha breathed, her voice a thin whisper.  “What the hell is this?” 

Samantha was less worried by the piece of post than she was by how stock still Snape had become.  She never liked it when he looked like that. 

Snape furrowed his brows as he took the single piece of paper from her still-shaking hands.  The message merely stated that Samantha Rhodes’ appearance was required in Courtroom Four at nine o’clock the following morning.  He turned the page over to find no further information.  His mouth forming a frown as he processed his confusion, Snape put Samantha’s letter down to pick up his own envelope.  He was even more confused to find the same information in the letter he’d been sent. 

“Did we miss something?  Is this an inquiry?  Are we being called as witnesses for something?”  Samantha asked rapid-fire.  “And why is the court meeting on a Sunday?  Isn’t that unusual?” 

“Yes,” said Snape out of the corner of his mouth, not knowing how to answer any of her previous questions.  He held both letters side by side and continued to stare at them.  “I don’t know what they’re playing at.” 

Snape watched as Samantha worked her way up and down the head table, asking each member of staff if they had received a summons. 

“May I see those?” McGonagall asked as Samantha spoke to Bill Weasley.  

Snape wordlessly handed the headmistress the letters.  McGonagall settled her glasses on the end of her nose before inspecting the two pieces of paper that had caused such a commotion amongst her staff. 

“This is the first time the court has sent notice?” 

Snape nodded.  “We have no idea what this is in reference to.  Is there an inquiry into the war?” 

“No one else has been summoned,” Samantha said as she retook her seat.  “Minerva, do you know what this is about?” 

“No.  If this had to do with the war, surely we would all have been called to appear.” 

“Not necessarily,” Snape muttered darkly. 

“What is that supposed to mean?” Samantha asked sharply, her anxiety making her waspish. 

“During wartime, no one wants to know what spies do in order to ensure victory,” Snape said bitterly.  “It’s only after the war is won that anyone regains their conscience and finds it necessary to condemn those who saved their world and handed them their power on a silver platter.” 

“Severus,” said Samantha in a low voice, placing a hand on his forearm.  As much as Samantha agreed with him – and was pleased to see that he was beginning to see his part in the war as more than a debt to be repaid – she wanted to keep him from getting too caught up in his anger before they even stepped foot in the Ministry the following morning. 

After breakfast, Bill was dispatched to floo his father and brother in order to gather intelligence on what the Wizengamot – and, by extension, the Ministry – could be up to.  Snape and Samantha went with McGonagall to her office to contact the newly elected Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt.  

McGonagall threw floo powder into the fireplace and the fire flared green before a young woman’s face appeared. 

“I must speak with Minister Shacklebolt,” said McGonagall without preamble. 

“I’m sorry, headmistress, the minister is not available today.  If you would like to schedule an appointment, I can try to find time for you on Monday,” the secretary answered. 

Samantha vaguely wondered what the secretary was doing in the office on a Saturday. 

“This matter is extremely urgent; it cannot wait another minute,” she insisted. 

“The Minister is in a meeting that cannot be interrupted and will be unavailable to speak with anyone for the remainder of the weekend.  Now, if you would like to schedule –” 

The woman’s voice cut off as McGonagall closed the floo connection. 

“Unable or unwilling to speak with anyone?” Samantha mused aloud. 

 “Samantha and I receive a mysterious summons from the Wizengamot for court on a Sunday and the Minister for Magic has made himself unavailable?  He has something to do with this,” said Snape with utter certainty. 

“I have a feeling you’re right, Severus,” agreed McGonagall. 

“What should we do?” Samantha asked nervously, the knot in her stomach getting worse. 

“Do you know any good solicitors?” Snape said.  It did not make her feel any better. 

“Only Muggles,” Samantha admitted.  “You?” 

Snape shook his head. 

“None that made it through the war,” he said.  “They’re either dead or in Azkaban.” 

“ _Good_ being a relative term, then,” Samantha muttered in response. 

“I’ll work on that,” McGonagall assured them.  “Go see if Arthur and Percy have any news for us.” 

Snape and Samantha walked silently to Bill’s office.  There wasn’t much they _could_ say that wouldn’t be mere speculation and in both of their cases, that activity tended to take the form of worst case scenarios. 

“They haven’t heard anything,” were the first words out of the redhead’s mouth when he opened the door.  He ushered them into his office and closed the door.  Snape took a moment to take in his surroundings.  He hadn’t stepped foot in the Defense classroom since his disastrous year as the subject’s teacher. 

“Kingsley is dodging us,” Samantha said as she took a seat in front of the desk.  “His secretary is screening the floo for him.” 

Bill shook his head in disbelief. 

“I thought he was one of us.” 

“Power corrupts,” said Snape darkly. 

“We don’t know what this is yet, Severus,” Samantha admonished him lightly.  “This could simply be an inquiry about the Death Eaters.  He wouldn’t want to broadcast what he’s doing in that case.  You know a lot about a lot of people who would otherwise be able to keep themselves out of Azkaban.” 

“Then why are you being called to appear?” Snape countered. 

Samantha sighed. 

“I don’t know, maybe he is under the impression that I had more access to what the Dark Lord was doing than I actually did,” she offered.  “I never did speak directly to him about my activities.  It always went through Minerva.” 

“It does sound likely,” Bill said, obviously more convinced by Samantha’s argument than Snape was.  “My father would have no reason to be involved in something like that.  But I still don’t like the secrecy with the rest of the Order.” 

“He may be trying to dismantle the Order.” 

Bill raised an eyebrow at her.  He was incredulous, at best. 

“What?” Samantha said.  “The Order was all well and good when we had a dysfunctional and compromised Ministry of Magic, but would its continued existence really service any attempts to reunite the magical British public?” 

“It would prevent what happened from ever happening again.” 

“It would challenge Kingsley’s authority as Minister,” countered Samantha.  “There may be altruistic motives in there somewhere, but he is in power now and he may be trying to tamp out any dissent before it happens.  Kingsley knows more than anyone how effective the Order can be when it disagrees with the Ministry.  He also has to think about optics.  People who don’t know much about the Order may think of it as some kind of personal force.” 

“Are you saying that you _agree_ with him?” Bill asked. 

Samantha paused before answering.  She took a sidelong glance at Snape, who had remained quiet throughout.  Unsurprisingly, his face was unreadable. 

“Yes and no,” she hedged.  “If we want to support the new government and this new world we’re trying to build, then we need to behave like we are a part of it.  Continuing on as if we were still in war time with all the secrecy and subterfuge involved is exactly the kind of thing we sought to avoid by defeating the Dark Lord.” 

“And you, Severus?  Is this what you think?” Bill asked, surprising Samantha.  Save for her, she knew no one still living who would so directly confront him. 

Snape continued to look straight ahead before flicking his eyes up to Bill’s face. 

“Nothing is black and white,” he answered.  “The Order might have once been a force for change, but in the absence of an overwhelming threat such as the Dark Lord presented, I – am not sure that force is needed.” 

Bill looked between Snape and Samantha.  It put her on edge and reminded her a little too much of the kind of suspicion she had been subject to while spying. 

“You are the last two I would expect to be on the establishment’s side,” he said at last. 

Samantha gave a sharp laugh. 

“Bill, we _are_ the establishment,” she argued.  “We may not be in the Ministry, but we shape the magical population as much – if not more – than they do.  We determine what we think the coming generation needs to know.  If that’s not the establishment, then I don’t know what is.” 

“Well, I still don’t like the idea of not having the Order around,” he grumbled.  “Checks and balances – isn’t that what you Americans are all about?” 

“I’m a British citizen, thank you, and a secret order to which members vow to give their lives for its cause is not exactly democracy in action,” Samantha remarked.  

Bill was not swayed and Samantha couldn’t blame him.  She remained fully aware of what people had thought of both her and Snape during the war and now they sat there suggesting that the Order may no longer be necessary; of course it didn’t look good.  

Samantha decided it was best to cut their losses and end the debate before they dug their hole any further down.  Snape, evidently, agreed, as he was up and standing at the door before Samantha could even thank Bill for contacting Arthur for them. 

It was only through sheer willpower that Samantha was able to eat a small bowl of soup at lunch.  As much as it may have appeared to Bill that she was on Kingsley’s side, her nerves certainly didn’t feel quite so confident that this was “just an inquiry.”  They both simply hoped that McGonagall could find someone on such short notice to represent them in court. 

By dinner, there was no word.  Samantha had tried for most of the afternoon to resolve herself to the fact that she and Snape would be on their own, but somehow a niggling sense of hope remained in the back of her mind that McGonagall would come up with some kind of solution.  But even with her considerable contacts through Hogwarts alumni alone, there was no one. 

“Maybe it’s for the best,” said Samantha in a tone that suggested otherwise.  “If we showed up with solicitors, perhaps they would think we’d have something to hide.” 

Snape put his cutlery down and folded his arms over his chest. 

“You can rest assured that they think we have something to hide no matter what happens tomorrow.” 

“Thank you, Severus, for the vote of confidence,” she said with a roll of her eyes.  “Do we just show up and hope for the best, then?  No representation?” 

Samantha knew full well that Snape was not the type to even hope for an even keel. 

“Who do you suggest we take for representation?  There is no one qualified.” 

“Yes, but it’s not a Muggle court, they don’t have to be a barrister,” Samantha argued.  “What about Minerva?” 

“Not to disparage our esteemed headmistress,” said Snape, “but how is she any more useful than either you or I?” 

He was right, of course.  As powerful and intelligent as she was, McGonagall couldn’t play a room in the same way that Dumbledore could.  There was also simply too much she didn’t know about all that Snape and Samantha had done to make her effective representation. 

“Hope for the best, then?” Samantha said with a lopsided smile. 

Snape snorted in response. 

“If only we knew why they would want us on the back foot,” Samantha considered aloud as she looked over the Great Hall. 

“We’ve been through worse,” said Snape quietly, his eyes fixed on his plate. 

Samantha looked at him then, torn between surprise and pleasure.  It was not like him to say such things.  But she was grateful for it, as she felt some of the tension leave her shoulders.  They had been through worse than most and gotten through it.  Her mind cast back to all the conversations they’d had during the war, both too aware of the likelihood that the other would not survive.  Neither was unscathed, that was certain, but if one could come out the other end of an experience like that, surely this could be handled. 

As much as Snape’s words had helped, sleep had not come easily.  Samantha woke earlier than she needed to, her nerves not allowing her another moment spent supine.  She was in equal parts tired and anxious.  The combination was never a pleasant experience.  

Upon meeting him in the Entrance Hall, Samantha suspected Snape had suffered the same fate, if the dark smudges under his eyes were anything to go by.  

In lieu of a good morning, Snape grumbled about being forced to use the visitors’ entrance.  Finding something to grumble about of a morning was his _raison d’être_ , however, so Samantha ignored it entirely.  She simply linked her arm in his and headed for the door.  They walked in silence to the front gate.  

Not knowing entirely where they were going, Samantha allowed Snape to lead them to a London side street.  When they exited the alley and stepped out onto the main thoroughfare, Samantha immediately recognized it as Whitehall.  She followed Snape to a disused telephone box, which Samantha quickly realized was the entrance.  As the box lowered into the ground, Samantha mused that the Ministry needed to find a new inconspicuous visitors’ entrance.  The prevalence of the mobile phone would soon make phone boxes an anachronism, if they were not already entirely so. 

Stepping into the Atrium, Samantha stopped a moment to take in her surroundings.  She had never been to the Ministry and, while she shouldn’t have been given the architectural sensibilities of the wizarding community, found its length and breadth quite astounding. 

Snape and Samantha joined the queue for the security desk in order to submit their wands.  The man behind the desk eyed Snape warily as he handed over his wand.  Samantha felt compelled to give the man a piece of her mind, if only because she knew it would be the last time that day she would be able to give in to such a temptation.  

The moment she handed over her wand, however, she was rendered mute.  Rather than simply inspect it and hand it back, as Snape’s had been, the wizard stood from the desk and walked to the wall of what looked like small lockers behind him.  He deposited her wand and returned to his seat.  Samantha stared at him. 

“I’ll have my wand back,” said Samantha insistently. 

“Not according to this,” the man answered, holding up a piece of purple paper.  His nametag read Morris.  

“Listen, Morris, I don’t care what that says, you have absolutely no right to withhold my –” 

“This piece of paper says I have every right.  Now move along before I have to force you to.” 

The thunderous look on Snape’s face was, ironically, the only thing that kept Samantha from flying into a rage.  Once more grabbing his arm, she forcefully led him away from the desk.  She soon realized, however, that she had no idea where they were going. 

“Severus,” she said, trying to pull his attention away from the still-glaring Morris.  “You’re going to have to lead the way.” 

Snape finally broke eye contact and looked down at Samantha before nodding stiffly and turning on his heel.  Samantha followed him to the lifts and down corridors before finally arriving at Courtroom Four.  Just as they moved to enter the room, a man in a dark robe took Samantha by the arm and began leading her further down the corridor.  A second man, wisely, did not try to touch Snape, instead he dumbly gestured toward the door. 

“Just do it,” Samantha mouthed at him.  Snape frowned, but acquiesced. 

Samantha, having been led in through a separate door, was directed to a chair in the middle of the room.  The gallery for witnesses and spectators was to her right while the assembled court loomed above her.  Stacks of paper tied with pink ribbon were piled high on every conceivable surface and the Court Scribe was busy preparing herself for the proceedings. 

She watched as Snape was sat in the gallery, looking just as unnerved as she felt.  Witnesses generally weren’t called to the stand before a hearing was called to order.  She gripped the bannister that encircled her and tried to take a steadying breath. 

A side door opened and the occupants of the court stood as Kingsley Shacklebolt strode into the room, taking his seat in the front and center of the judges.  As unfamiliar as she was with the Wizengamot, Samantha was sure that the Minister for Magic wasn’t routinely called upon to preside over proceedings. 

“The court is convened today to decide the case of Samantha Kathleen Rhodes, who stands accused of the use with malicious and specific intent of an Unforgiveable Curse on a minor,” read out one of the judges, the ornate silver ‘W’ on the sleeve of his robes catching the light as he moved to re-seat himself. 

Samantha remained standing, agape at what she had just heard. 

“You may be seated,” the judge who had read out her charges said. 

She closed her mouth with a snap and sat down heavily. 

“The court calls Severus Snape to give evidence,” said a stout wizard in black robes.  He had been sat at the table next to the scribe, hidden behind piles of parchment.  The man rose and tracked Snape’s steps to the witness box.  Upon reaching it, he handed Snape a piece of parchment.  Snape glared at it before looking up at Samantha.  She silently willed him to simply play along.  He seemed to have sensed what she was trying to convey, for he grimaced and sighed, looking back down at the parchment in his hand. 

“I do solemnly, sincerely and truly declare and affirm that the evidence I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,” he said expressionlessly. 

It was laughable to Samantha how the proceedings had thus far so closely resembled Muggle courts, yet how out of sync it all was at the same time.  Not a single court in the country could get away with putting someone on trial who’d had no knowledge of the charges before the trial started. 

“Is it not true that during your tenure as headmaster of Hogwarts, the standard punishment for students who had received detention was torture?”  Kingsley asked Snape. 

“It was,” Snape said through a sneer, his contempt for the court on full display. 

“To be carried out by Amycus Carrow?” 

“Yes.” 

“Who decided this policy?” Kingsley asked needlessly. 

“The Dark Lord,” said Snape.  Samantha watched as some of the judges exchanged looks. 

“You will have to be more specific,” Kingsley countered, knowing exactly what kind of discomfort he was putting Snape in. 

Samantha glared at Kingsley.  Snape rounded his shoulders and raised his chin defiantly. 

“Severus,” Samantha muttered the warning under her breath. 

“Voldemort,” Snape answered, clearly enunciating every syllable. 

“Why did you carry out this policy if _you_ were headmaster?” 

Samantha wanted to know what exactly Kingsley was getting at. 

“As is well known by now, I was a spy for the Order of the Phoenix within the Death Eaters.  To have disobeyed an order of that magnitude from _Voldemort_ would have resulted in my removal from the school, placing the students _and_ staff in far greater danger,” Snape stated. 

“And it saved you from having to answer to Voldemort,” Kingsley added. 

“It did not,” said Snape, his irritation clearly beginning to rise.  “On more than one occasion, I sought to shield students from serving detentions with either Amycus Carrow or his sister.  It did not take long for Voldemort to be made aware of these deviations from his orders.” 

“What was the result of these ‘deviations’?” 

“I had to ‘answer to Voldemort’,” said Snape with a sneer. 

“It has been made clear to this court in the past that Voldemort frequently punished his followers for disobedience through the use of the Cruciatus Curse.  Would it be fair to say that this was your experience?” 

“It would be fair to say,” Snape answered sardonically. Samantha would have laughed had the circumstances not been so dire. 

“So you have firsthand knowledge of the effects of the Cruciatus Curse,” said Kingsley.  “Its…after effects, in particular.” 

“Yes,” said Snape, not quite grasping where Kingsley was going with his questioning, but not trusting it all the same. 

“On the morning of Saturday, the 8th of November, do you recall if Samantha Rhodes was displaying any symptoms that would suggest she had recently suffered the effects of the Cruciatus?” 

“I cannot clearly recall anything about the morning of the 8th of November without any context for why I should recall it,” said Snape, trying to obstruct Kingsley’s line of questioning.  He knew full well what and why he should recall it. 

“It is the understanding of the court that on the evening of the 7th of November, Dennis Creevey, a fourth year Gryffindor, served out a detention overseen by Alecto Carrow and the accused,” said Kingsley.  Samantha shivered at being reduced to _the accused_.  “It was in the course of this detention that the accused did with malice and specific intent cast the Cruciatus Curse on the victim.” 

“How did the court come by this… _understanding_?” Asked Snape, knowing full well he had told no one of what had occurred, other than the Dark Lord himself, and he certainly wasn’t in a position to give evidence. 

“It is not the privilege of the witness to question the court,” Kingsley warned Snape. 

“No one else is,” Snape countered hotly.  Samantha cringed.  His anger was getting the better of him, yet again.  “The accused has a right to question her accuser.” 

“You are not the accused’s counsel,” Kingsley argued. 

“The accused was not given sufficient notice to obtain counsel,” Samantha spoke up, her voice harsh. 

“You were given a full month to arrange representation,” said one of the other judges. 

“I was _not_!” Samantha protested.  “I received the first and only communication from the court yesterday.” 

The look on the judge’s face was one of shock.  Before she could further question Samantha, Kingsley interrupted. 

“We cannot be held responsible for your inability to arrange your calendar,” Kingsley said.  “The proper venue for this grievance would have been with the court clerk.” 

“Can I request a continuance?” 

“You cannot,” Kingsley answered immediately. 

“And why is that?” Samantha asked. 

“The court is not prepared to delay justice in the prosecution of crimes committed during the war,” he stated. 

Samantha felt as though a block of ice had taken up residence in her stomach. 

“Are you – is this a – am I now to be prosecuted as a _war criminal_?” Samantha asked, her breath catching in her throat.  “I was a member of the Order!” 

“That is no guarantee of innocence,” Kingsley responded swiftly.  

Samantha opened her mouth to pursue her line of questioning, but snapped it shut when Kingsley banged his gavel. 

“You will remain silent until the court is finished with this witness,” Kingsley demanded. 

“This witness will remain silent,” Snape announced. 

“I can hold you in contempt,” said Kingsley, wielding his gavel. 

_“Severus,”_ Samantha said quietly, but intensely all the same.  Kingsley gave her a warning look, but turned back to Snape when it was clear she wouldn’t speak again. 

Snape stared at Samantha and it was not long before she could feel his presence in her mind. 

‘Don’t give them ammunition against you,’ Samantha pleaded with him in her mind. 

‘I refuse to incriminate you,’ he answered. 

‘They know it happened, Severus,’ she said.  ‘We need to simply accept that and move on.  The question is intent, which he has no way of proving.  Just answer his questions.’ 

When Snape pulled back from her mind, she looked to Kingsley to find him frowning at them.  She was sure he knew what they’d just done. 

“Is the witness prepared to cooperate now?” 

Snape gave a sharp nod. 

“The witness will answer verbally,” said Kingsley. 

_“Yes,”_ Snape spat. 

“Did the accused display physical symptoms of having suffered from the Cruciatus Curse?” Kingsley asked, resuming his questioning. 

“Only prolonged suffering from a significantly stronger spellcaster could produce the kind of symptoms you’re looking for,” answered Snape.  “However, she was clearly under emotional distress.” 

Samantha almost sighed in relief.  If Snape could introduce her emotional state, it would surely cast doubt on the charges. 

“How did this distress manifest itself?” It was the same judge who had been under the impression that due notice had been given.  Clearly the entire body of the Wizengamot was not on the same page with Kingsley. 

“She was…non-responsive,” he explained.  “The previous evening, I asked her to come to my office after the detention had concluded.  When I had not heard from her by the following morning, I went to her rooms.  She had not moved to eat or sleep the entire night or morning.  At first, she did not respond to my questions.  It was clear she had experienced something traumatic.” 

“And how did she describe what transpired in the course of detention?” 

“She and Mr. Creevey met Alecto Carrow in the Muggle Studies classroom,” Snape began. 

“Which was taught as Magical Hierarchy under your tenure as headmaster.”  

Kingsley seemed to be taking every opportunity to test Snape’s patience.  Snape glared at Kingsley, but resisted engaging him. 

“Carrow proceeded to explain to Mr. Creevey how she would discipline him with the Cruciatus Curse.  Before casting it, however, Carrow turned her wand on Samantha and ordered her to cast it.” 

“Under what threat?” The judge asked. 

“Carrow said that she would cast the curse on both Samantha and Mr. Creevey if Samantha did not cast it herself,” Snape answered, the anger he felt at what Alecto had done coloring his voice. 

“Why would Ms. Carrow make that request?” 

“Death Eaters frequently challenged each other,” Snape responded vaguely. 

“I don’t understand what you mean,” the judge said. 

“An aversion to violence was seen as a weakness,” he explained, though it was clear he didn’t really want to open this door.  “Loyalty could be questioned when someone refused to inflict pain on others.  Keeping one’s hands clean was not an option.” 

“Proving loyalty to Voldemort is not a defense for torture,” came another judge’s voice. 

“Samantha prevented Alecto Carrow from killing Dennis Creevey.  The blame for what occurred lays solely on Alecto Carrow,” Snape argued. 

“That is not for you to say,” said Kingsley.  “This witness is excused.” 

Snape returned to his seat, his movements not quite as fluid as they usually were.  He was angrier than perhaps Samantha had ever seen him.  She silently willed him to keep his wand where it was.  It was no use adding fuel to the flames. 

“The court now calls Lucius Malfoy to give evidence,” the wizard in black robes announced.  Samantha gasped and locked eyes with Snape. 

The Malfoy patriarch walked into the court with the same arrogance and haughty demeanor he’d had before the war.  Samantha didn’t have to guess to know what he’d been able to trade for his evidence.  Taking his place in the witness box, he read out the oath with a clear voice – a far cry from the wretch he’d been mere months before. 

“How do you know the accused?” Kingsley asked. 

“She was the – _plaything_ of Severus Snape,” Malfoy responded, a sneer on his face as he looked down at her. 

“You brought forward the evidence for this crime during testimony in a previous trial, correct?” 

“Yes,” he answered simply.  Samantha got the feeling that “previous trial” had been his own.  Of course he would try to throw blame on as many others as possible. 

“And how did you come by the knowledge of the events of the 7th of November?” 

“After the Dark – _Voldemort_ took control of my home,” he began, clearly relishing the chance to spin the story his way.  “I was frequently present for meetings.  On the evening of the 9 th of November, both Severus Snape and Alecto Carrow were present.  Through Amycus Carrow, Voldemort had been made aware of the events surrounding the detention.” 

“And what transpired at this meeting?” Asked Kingsley. 

“Voldemort told Severus to discipline Alecto with the Cruciatus Curse.” 

“Did he do so?” 

“He did,” said Malfoy, throwing a careless glance at Snape, who was only barely restraining himself. 

“And it was at this meeting that you came to be aware of the fact that the accused used an Unforgiveable on a student?” Kingsley was simply leading Malfoy along, allowing him to play his part in condemning Samantha. 

“It was,” Malfoy answered in a tone that suggested he disapproved of Samantha’s actions. 

“The court is done with this witness,” Kingsley announced.  He had swiftly blocked all attempts by the other judges to ask questions, lest they cast any aspersions on the witness’ character. 

Malfoy stood and smiled before strutting out of the court room. 

“The facts of this case are plain,” Kingsley began.  “The accused does not deny having cast the Cruciatus Curse on the minor, Dennis Creevey.  Her motivation for doing so is also plain: She was trying to prove herself to her fellow Death Eater.  Any other motivation should be considered tertiary to this principal aim to better her own standing in Voldemort’s ranks.” 

Samantha sputtered. 

“But Kingsley –” 

“Minister,” he said sternly. 

“You – _you know me_.  I had _no_ choice.  Alecto would have killed him,” said Samantha desperately. 

“Can anyone corroborate your version of events?  With Alecto Carrow dead…” 

“Dennis Creevey!” Samantha shouted.  “He heard her say it.” 

“Mr. Creevey is not a reliable witness.  Before she was killed in the Battle of Hogwarts, Alecto Carrow tortured him to the point of insanity.  He was admitted to St. Mungo’s and remains there in the Janus Thickey Ward.  He is not expected to ever recover.” 

Kingsley’s stoic face betrayed no emotion for either Samantha’s or the boy’s plight.  For her part, Samantha was briefly moved from her own dilemma to spare a thought for Dennis.  She hadn’t been aware of what had happened to him and couldn’t help but feel a little responsible for what Alecto did.  

“What if I provide my memories?  You can give me Veritaserum!” 

“Now you’ll allow it?” 

“Wh –” Samantha stopped mid-word, realizing to what he was referring.  “I could not protect Severus’ secrets if I had taken it then.” 

Kingsley turned in his chair to address the assembled judges. 

“When Ms. Rhodes initially offered her services to spy for the Order, I wanted her questioned under Veritaserum.  She refused,” he explained.  

The judges eyed her warily as Samantha bristled at the oversimplification of the situation. 

“What the _Minister_ does not appreciate is that I was the only one who knew of Severus Snape’s true loyalties and could not allow myself to be put in a situation where he could be compromised.” 

“And now to save yourself –” 

“The very fact that I knew I could not lie under the effects of Veritaserum should prove now that I have no way of counteracting or eluding it.  Should you administer Veritaserum, you will have the truth.” 

“As you see it,” he added. 

“I beg your pardon?” 

“You have had plenty of time to convince yourself that what you did was right.  Veritaserum can only reveal a subjective truth at this point.” 

“And my memories?”  Samantha demanded.  “My memories have no evidentiary value, then?” 

“Easily tampered with,” he remarked off-handedly. 

Samantha looked to Snape with wide eyes.  She had no way to prove herself.  Snape himself was just barely restraining his rage.  It was solely in the knowledge that an outburst from him could only hurt her case that kept him in his seat in the gallery. 

“If you have no witnesses or evidence to enter on your behalf…” 

“How could I!” Samantha shrieked.  “I received notice on Saturday morning that I was to appear in court on Sunday!  Nothing more than a room number and time were given to me.  There was no warrant served, no charges specified, no arrest.  I am a British citizen and you are circumventing every basic right –” 

“Traitors have no rights.” 

Kingsley spoke with a finality that paralyzed Samantha. 

“I – am – not – a – traitor.” Her chest heaved as she struggled to maintain composure.  “Severus is not a traitor, ergo, I am not a traitor.” 

“Severus Snape is not on trial here.” 

Something in Kingsley’s tone unnerved her.  She studied him carefully before speaking. 

“Did you mean to say ‘yet’?” She asked. 

“I said what I meant.” 

“Does the Wizengamot intend to bring charges against Severus Snape?  After everything he’s –” 

“Enough,” said Kingsley loudly as he banged his gavel.  The chattering in the gallery stirred up by Samantha’s question quieted immediately.  “As you cannot provide any evidence or witness testimony to substantiate your version of events, I will call for a verdict.  All those who find Samantha Rhodes guilty of the intentional and malicious use of an Unforgiveable Curse, namely the Cruciatus Curse, on the minor, Dennis Creevey?” 

Samantha tried to count the hands of those who would condemn her, but her vision swam.  She vaguely heard Kingsley’s gavel again, but it sounded so far away.  Darkness soon overtook her and then there was silence.


	7. Law and the Order

It was the worst dream she could ever remember having.  Amidst the dark and the bone chilling cold, she could hear…despair.  There was no screaming or wailing.  And yet the noise was without ceasing.  These were the sounds of the damned.  No matter how she tossed and turned, it remained and she could not escape it.  She wasn’t entirely sure she wasn’t adding to it either. 

Suddenly there was a loud noise.  A banging, clanging of metal on metal and she woke with a start, horrified to find that her nightmare was in fact reality.  The moans of groans of the others came into focus as sleep abandoned her to her fate. 

Samantha looked down to find that she was no longer wearing the clothes she’d worn to the Ministry.  They were dirty and striped.  Her head snapped up to try to take in her surroundings.  As her eyes adjusted, the awful awareness of where she was made her breath catch in her throat.  She clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her startled cry. 

It was clear that the removal of the dementors did little, if anything, to improve Azkaban.  It was still frigidly cold and the briny dampness of the North Sea clung to everything, preventing warmth or comfort of any kind. 

Standing on unsteady legs, Samantha made her way to the door of her cell.  Rusted from the sea air, the bars were rough and cut into her hands as she gripped them to keep herself steady.  The pain helped to sharpen her focus and she called out to anyone who would listen. 

After nearly twenty minutes of this – and perhaps only because her shouting had inspired some of the other pathetic inhabitants of the prison to do the same – a guard deigned to come to her cell. 

“What!” He shouted at her. 

The light from his wand, which he held unapologetically in her face, was blinding.  She held up a hand to shield her eyes. 

“May I contact someone?” She asked, trying to make her voice as contrite as possible. 

The guard looked as though he was about to laugh. 

“Do you think this is social hour?” He mocked her. 

“I was brought here from my trial while I was unconscious.  I was not even aware I had been convicted until I woke up in here,” she tried to explain. 

The guard narrowed his eyes at her. 

“You’re the one who tortured that boy,” he said accusingly. 

“That isn’t what happened!” She cried. 

“That’s what they _all_ say,” the guard said with a roll of his eyes as he put his wand back and started to walk away. 

“Please!” She shouted after him.  “I must speak with Sev – Minerva McGonagall!” 

Her first instinct was the she needed to see Snape, but she quickly realized that requesting to speak with him would get her nowhere.  The Ministry was clearly intent on prosecuting him and would likely not even consider allowing her to see him. 

The guard stopped and turned to face her again.  He let out a great sigh and walked back to her cell. 

“And why would she want to speak to _you_?  After you sent one of her students to the madhouse?” 

Samantha scoffed at him.  Clearly the prison grapevine was at work in spectacular fashion. 

“That wasn’t me!  Alecto Carrow–” She quieted immediately when he raised his wand. 

He once again held the illuminated wand in her face.  After looking up and down the corridor, he sighed and looked back at her. 

“It’s the middle of the night,” he said at last, his voice a little less harsh now.  “No one is doing anything until the morning.” 

Samantha nodded and backed away from the cell door, keeping her hands at her sides.  Tears were forming in her eyes and she blinked them away.  She backed up to the cot in her cell and sat down heavily.  Dropping her head in her hands, she let out a shuddering breath.  Dimly, she heard the guard’s boots on the stone floor as he walked away. 

With a sigh, she curled up on the bed, willing the sun to rise. 

The moment Samantha had collapsed in the dock, Snape sprang from his seat and tried to attend to her.  Amidst the commotion, Kingsley banged his gavel and announced the verdict: Guilty.  In a singularly astonishing show of bureaucracy, he then stated that sentencing would take place at a later date. 

Snape had to watch helplessly, having been magically restrained, as the court officials unceremoniously dragged Samantha out of the courtroom.  The moment he was released, he bounded toward the Atrium, desperate to get back to Hogwarts as quickly as he could. 

“Severus!” He heard his name called as he stepped off the lift.  It was Arthur Weasley. 

“It was a set up,” Snape growled.  “They put her on trial for torture.” 

“They did what?!”  Arthur’s eyebrows were nearly at his hairline. 

“She was convicted and they’re taking her to Azkaban,” Snape explained in a rush.  “Find out if there is anything you can do here to stop it before sentencing.” 

Snape sidestepped him and walked straight into one of the many fireplaces lining the Atrium before the Weasley patriarch could even respond.  With a look of determination, however, he spun on his heel to make his way to the courtrooms. 

The floo took Snape directly to McGonagall’s office.  She had clearly been waiting for him all morning, for she accosted him the moment he stepped out of the fireplace. 

“What’s happened?” She said breathlessly, knowing from the look on his face that all was not well. 

“It was a trial,” said Snape, wondering how many times we would have to have this conversation.  “They put her on trial and convicted her for torturing Dennis Creevey.” 

“How could they – she didn’t do it!”  McGonagall cried.  She had learned of the poor boy’s fate not long after he had been admitted to St. Mungo’s.  Now that she thought of it, it had actually been Kingsley Shacklebolt who had told her. 

Snape sighed before answering. 

“Out with it,” she demanded. 

“When Mr. Creevey had his detention,” Snape began, “Alecto was not…the only one to use the curse.” 

McGonagall sat down heavily, a hand on her chest.  Snape hastened to explain the situation. 

“Alecto demanded that Samantha cast the Cruciatus on Mr. Creevey or she would do it to both of them.  When Samantha refused, Alecto cast the curse on Samantha.  In order to save him from Alecto’s wand, Samantha was the one who cast the curse on the boy.” 

Snape took the seat opposite the headmistress. 

“She never told me,” she said softly. 

“It happened the night before Longbottom and his compatriots broke into my office,” said Snape.  McGonagall seemed mildly affronted that Samantha hadn’t thought to pass on that bit of information to her.  “Things became…complicated after that.” 

“On what grounds was she convicted?” McGonagall asked, knowing they needed to start laying the groundwork for an appeal, if one was at all possible. 

“She couldn’t deny having done it, but the conviction was based on her intent,” said Snape.  “The _Minister_ argued that she committed her crime with malicious intent in order to better her standing with the Dark Lord.” 

McGonagall frowned and shook her head. 

“I never would have expected it of him,” she said sadly. 

Snape rolled his shoulders in a kind of shrug.  He looked at Dumbledore’s portrait.  It was empty. 

“Believing that anyone will do or be what you expect is the surest way to be proven wrong.” 

“I’m going to call an Order meeting,” McGonagall announced. 

That got Snape’s attention.  He drew his eyes away from the empty frame to fix them on McGonagall. 

“Is that wise, Minerva?” He asked.  “With Shacklebolt…” 

“Hang Kingsley and _his_ Ministry,” she answered angrily.  “I don’t know what he’s playing at, but this is exactly what we were fighting against.” 

Snape put his hands up and stood from his chair. 

“Might I make a request that you include with that call to a meeting an appeal for solicitors?”  Snape asked.  “Someone who has experience in criminal defense.  Aside from the obvious need for someone to help with the appeal, there was – at the trial, it was suggested that I might be the next one in the dock.” 

McGonagall gaped at him. 

_“Those people!”_ McGonagall shouted.  She looked like she was about to continue but, instead, closed her eyes and took a deep breath.  Nodding, she opened her eyes again.  “Yes, I will.” 

By that evening, the majority of the surviving members of the Order of the Phoenix were assembled in McGonagall’s sitting room.  Although students, both Harry and Hermione had been allowed to attend the meeting, much to the youngest Weasley’s dismay. 

Once all had arrived, McGonagall stood and the assembled group quieted almost immediately.  While they had not heard the entire story of what had transpired that day, they’d heard enough to know the gravity of the situation. 

“I’m going to let Severus relay the events of today, as he was the only one of us who was present for all of it,” she said without fanfare, re-seating herself. 

Just as she did, Sturgis Podmore raised a hand to halt the proceedings. 

“If I might, Minerva,” he started, his voice wavering far more than anyone remembered it had done prior to his six months in Azkaban.  He’d been one of the last to experience the prison under guard of the dementors and had not fared well. 

McGonagall looked to Snape.  He bowed his head to allow Sturgis to continue. 

“You asked us to recommend solicitors,” he continued.  “Well, it goes without saying that I had need of one in the not too distant past and he was as good as any I ever came into contact with at the Ministry.  Even handled my appeal to the end and had my record cleared.  I already spoke to him and he said he was interested.  I told him we were meeting tonight and he said he’d like to come if you’d have him.” 

“You can use the floo in the office, Sturgis,” said McGonagall. 

Snape had rather hoped the man would have a name for them.  He had long been of the opinion that only those who had experienced the backhand of the criminal justice system, which Sturgis undoubtedly had, could truly know the value of a good solicitor.  And though he would never confess it aloud, Snape felt more relief than he could say that neither he nor Samantha would be facing the Wizengamot on their own again. 

Not five minutes later, Sturgis returned to the sitting room.  Following behind him was, Snape assumed, the solicitor.  The man appeared to be at least two or three decades older than Snape, and had a gray beard, streaked with white.  A crown of gray hair circled his balding head and his bushy eyebrows perched atop keen hazel eyes. 

“This is Simeon Ward,” said Sturgis.  “Simeon, meet the Order.” 

“Good evening,” he said, his voice quiet but steady all the same.  He moved his eyes over the faces of all those assembled, stopping on Snape.  “I would say introductions are in order, but I don’t believe there is a single one of you whom I do not know at least by reputation.” 

Snape met his gaze and raised an eyebrow. 

“If you don’t mind,” Simeon continued, taking a seat.  “I would like you to take me through what happened over the past two days.  As to the actual specifics of the case, I would prefer to speak with you privately, as confidentiality can only apply when I’m speaking to my client alone.  Provided, of course, that I decide to take you on.” 

As Snape related the details of the owls from the Wizengamot and what had happened when they arrived at the Ministry, Simeon’s unruly eyebrows rose further and further on his wrinkled forehead.  By the time he had finished with the image of an unconscious Samantha being dragged to Azkaban, the entire room felt as though the air had been sucked out of it. 

“To say there is a case for an appeal is perhaps the greatest understatement in human history,” said Simeon in an even voice, breaking the stunned silence that had settled over the room.  “And, of course, if the court plans to treat you the same way as they have your fiancée, then at least we will be able to show up prepared.” 

He paused for a moment. 

“Without going into the details of the incident upon which the Wizengamot’s case was based,” he said carefully, “is there anyone aside from yourself who can testify to her loyalties?” 

“I can,” said McGonagall immediately.  “I was the only one who knew both sides of the story.  Samantha was forced to walk a fine line in the last year of the war.  Her loyalty to Voldemort was only ever assumed – by both sides.  She never openly confirmed or denied it.  But in order to maintain Severus’ cover, she had to give the impression that he had enormous influence over her.” 

“Not an easy feat to accomplish,” Simeon agreed. 

“You weren’t the only one who knew,” muttered Snape.  When McGonagall looked at him questioningly, he answered.  “Shacklebolt.” 

“The Minister knew what she was doing?” Simeon asked, sounding surprised. 

“He did,” McGonagall confirmed.  “Though he insisted upon questioning her under Veritaserum.  Given Samantha’s knowledge of Severus’ position, however, she couldn’t allow it to happen.” 

“And were you aware of his position?” 

McGonagall shook her head, looking upset. 

“You weren’t meant to,” said Snape quietly in an uncharacteristic show of sympathy.  Then, to Simeon, “As the plan was initially envisioned by Professor Dumbledore, there was to be no one who knew of my true loyalties.  But it soon became clear to me that there needed to be someone who could plausibly be getting information directly from me that could then be passed on to the Order.” 

“And how was that plausibility established?” Simeon asked, slipping easily into his role as interrogator. 

Snape rolled his shoulders, not comfortable with sharing that piece of Samantha’s cover; particularly in front of the likes of Harry Potter and Hermione Granger.  Not to mention that it did neither himself nor Samantha any favors. 

“Prior to Albus’…death,” McGonagall began awkwardly, “Severus and Samantha had been in what those of us on staff believed to be quite a serious relationship.  The explanation that Samantha gave me at the time was that, despite what had happened, Severus still…cared for her.” 

Snape only just caught himself from scoffing at McGonagall’s altering of the historical record.  Of course she would conveniently gloss over the fact that what she actually believed was that he was exchanging information for sex. 

To his credit, Snape thought, Simeon did not look convinced by the explanation.  He resolved to tell him the whole truth once they could speak privately.  The more Simeon knew, the better he could protect them from overzealous politicians. 

As if to punctuate the uncomfortable atmosphere with an exclamation point, Hermione Granger’s hand shot into the air. 

“What is it, Granger?” Snape only just stopped himself from growling at her. 

“I’m sorry, it’s only –” 

“It’s only, what?” 

“Why is the Minister doing this?” 

Snape didn’t answer and merely crossed his arms over his chest.  When Bill Weasley drew a breath to speak, Snape glared pointedly at him. 

“Samantha told me only yesterday that she thought Kingsley might be trying to dismantle the Order,” said Bill, ignoring Snape. 

“But why?” Hermione asked again. 

Snape huffed in response. 

“She said it was because the Order challenges Kingsley’s authority as Minister,” Bill continued, unabated. 

There was murmuring amongst the Order members.  Snape did not like where the conversation was leading and wanted to try to break it up as soon as possible.  He’d been on the receiving end of the Order’s mistrust for far too long to allow Samantha to be saddled with it now. 

“This isn’t particularly germane to her defense, however provocative a notion,” Simeon interjected.  

Snape was growing fonder and fonder of him. 

“What is important now is gathering witnesses in support of both Professor Rhodes and Professor Snape here,” the older man continued, gesturing toward Snape.  “Whether those witnesses can give evidence specifically on the content of the charges or serve as character witnesses; the more we can throw at them, the better.” 

“I’ll give evidence,” said Harry, standing with the force of his conviction.  Snape rolled his eyes. 

“For whom?” Asked Simeon. 

Harry glanced at Snape before answering.  The look on Snape’s face took some of the wind out of the Boy Who Kept Living’s sails, but he puffed out his chest and announced clearly to Simeon that he would give evidence for Snape. 

“Well, that should cover you, then,” said Simeon to Snape, completely serious. 

_“Should it?”_ Asked Snape smoothly.  The last thing he wanted was to feel indebted to Potter for keeping him out of Azkaban. 

“I have no doubt that Kingsley Shacklebolt will want to appear as though Harry Potter has no influence over the Ministry or he himself as Minister,” Simeon explained.  “But given your description of the questioning today, the rest of the court does not seem to share his agenda.  That will work in our favor.” 

Snape pursed his lips, but said nothing.  Despite the assurances from Simeon, he did worry about what would happen to both he and Samantha if the Minister had his way. 

Concluding that the fully assembled group could do nothing more for the situation at the moment, McGonagall dismissed the formal meeting to allow Snape to speak with Simeon while the rest of the Order continued to drink tea and chat in her sitting room.  Harry and Hermione were dispatched to the Gryffindor common room with strict instructions to not take any detours lest they miss curfew. 

One swift visit to the kitchens later and the pair were back in their common room.  Ginny was at their side immediately, demanding a full report. 

Hermione summarized the meeting as best she could.  The whole ordeal seemed so incredible as to beg disbelief.  After the experiences she’d had over the past year, she thought nothing could surprise her anymore.  The Minister had certainly done just that. 

“What are they supposed to do now?” Asked Ginny when Hermione finished her account. 

“Mr. Ward said that they needed witnesses,” she answered, tucking her frizzy hair behind her ears. 

Ginny’s eyebrows knitted together as she stole a glance around the common room.  Satisfied that no one else was paying attention, she drew a breath to speak. 

“I think I can be a witness,” she whispered. 

“What? What are you talking about?” Harry demanded.  He had started to ignore Hermione in favor of the chocolate they’d nicked from the kitchens, but Ginny’s admission caught his attention. 

“I had that detention with her, remember?” Ginny scoffed at herself when she remembered that they had very little knowledge of what had happened at the school in the previous year.  “It was the day after you three broke into the Ministry.” 

Hermione had, at least, the grace to look a little sheepish at that. 

“She had me scrubbing tables –” 

“I thought the Carrows did all the detentions,” Harry interrupted. 

Ginny shook her head irritably, her red hair bouncing around her shoulders. 

“Not at first,” she explained.  “And anyway, I was scrubbing tables…maybe being a little too loud at it and she stopped me.  She said she wasn’t my enemy.” 

Harry and Hermione looked at each other. 

“Was that it?”  Asked Hermione, concerned that Ginny’s offer of help wouldn’t be all that helpful.  “That might not hold up –” 

“Would you two let me _finish_?” 

The young witch glared at her friends before continuing. 

“She told me she heard us,” she said to Hermione, who clearly was not cottoning on.  “Over the summer…in the garden.” 

Hermione’s look of mortification peaked Harry’s interest. 

“Heard you what?” 

Ginny looked to Hermione, whose eyes were closed tightly.  She sighed before answering. 

“Heard me tell Ginny that Professor Rhodes never suspected Professor Snape of being loyal to Voldemort,” Hermione admitted at last.  “In so many words.” 

“Yeah, and that you didn’t suspect him either,” Ginny added. 

“What?” Harry exclaimed. 

“It’s not that I didn’t – I just…had my doubts about…what happened and how much we actually knew about it,” said Hermione.  She glared at Ginny.  “Although that’s _not_ what I said.” 

Had it been not one or two years earlier, Harry would have lost his temper and started shouting about treachery.  Instead, he was silent for a moment. 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” He asked quietly, his guilt surrounding Snape and everything connected to him coming to the fore. 

_“Harry,”_ Hermione said as if just that one word should make it obvious.  “If I had even suggested for one second that I doubted your version of events, you would have kicked me out of the house and never spoken to me again.” 

“But back to _me_ ,” Ginny spoke up again.  “I haven’t even gotten to the main part.  She outright asked me if I thought she’d turned and when I said no, she said not to tell anyone that.” 

Hermione raised her eyebrows. 

“I think you need to talk to Professor McGonagall,” Hermione concluded.  “And to the solicitor.  He seemed pretty confident that something could be done to get Professor Rhodes out of Azkaban.” 

Ginny nodded soberly in response. 

“I never knew that Professor Rhodes had been so involved,” said Ginny, leaning back in her chair. 

“It would have been hard not to have been,” Hermione countered. 

Ginny shook her head. 

“No, I mean, that she was spying like that and, well, she was basically in the same position as Snape, wasn’t she?” 

“You can manage Professor Rhodes, but not _Professor_ Snape?  After everything?”  Hermione scolded her friend. 

“You can manage to still be this much of a swot after everything?” Harry asked with a grin.  

Hermione swatted the back of his head, knocking his glasses askew. 

Snape and Simeon had meanwhile flooed to Snape’s rooms in order to discuss in private both Samantha’s appeal and what he felt sure would be his own trial. 

“Now, before you start,” said Simeon, extracting Muggle pen and paper from his bag.  “I would like to try to put some boundaries around this conversation.  First, I want to make sure we discuss only your role in Samantha’s appeal and deal at greater length with what the Ministry may throw at you in terms of criminal charges.  The reason for that being that confidentiality would not apply with Samantha if you revealed to me her actions.  I need for her to tell me that.  I will also need you to sign an agreement to retain me as your counsel so that confidentiality can apply to what we say here.” 

Simeon dashed off a contract on the yellow lined paper and handed it to Snape. 

“This is a simple contract, something more official can be done tomorrow, but this allows me to get started now,” he explained. 

Snape read over the document, signed it, and handed it back. 

“Might I ask what your practice deals in primarily?” 

“Criminal defense almost exclusively,” Simeon answered.  “Both Muggle and magical.  In fact, I trained and worked as a Muggle barrister first.” 

“Are you a Muggleborn?” Snape asked.  It wasn’t a terribly polite question, but the man’s situation was unique. 

“Half-blood, but it was mainly because there was simply more work in law in the Muggle world,” he explained.  “I tend to take cases that are a result of false accusations or some kind of mishandling of evidence by the prosecution.  I may be a criminal lawyer, but I’m more interested in seeing the right person go to jail.  In the wizarding world – barring the kind of corruption we’re seeing play out here – it is much easier to ascertain the truth with the use of potions and spells.  For Muggles, to be falsely accused can be a death sentence.”      

Snape was impressed.  He had a feeling that, though the man was not poorly dressed by any stretch of the imagination, Simeon did not enjoy the same financial reward that others in his line of work did.  Criminal defense could be a lucrative career and he, instead, had chosen to focus on the poor and the marginalized, for it was they who tended to bear the weight of the failings of the justice system. 

“Now, I have about the same familiarity with your story as the rest of the wizarding world,” Simeon admitted.  “What charges could you expect the Wizengamot to bring?” 

Snape lifted an eyebrow. 

“Let me count the ways,” he murmured sarcastically.  “I did a great many things in order to maintain my cover.  All of them have been and can be explained by the memories that were given to Potter when he – when _I_ thought that I was going to die.  Not least of which is the murder of Albus Dumbledore.” 

Snape continued his litany of sins and watched carefully as Simeon wrote on his pad, showing absolutely no sign of judgment or shock.  It was a novel feeling, Snape thought, telling this man the things he’d done without the look of recrimination he had expected.  Even through the discomfort of describing precisely what McGonagall thought Samantha’s arrangement with him was, Simeon simply continued to write, nodding at appropriate intervals. 

When Snape had finished, Simeon jotted down a few more notes before nodding and setting his pen down.  He steepled his hands and looked up at Snape. 

“Our case here more than likely will rely not on whether or not you had done something,” Simeon said.  “This will be a question of intent.  They will say that you did these things to gain favor with Voldemort.  They will attack your character.  We will need to establish that you were not a loyal Death Eater and that what you did was at the behest of Albus Dumbledore.” 

“And what of the time when I was headmaster?” Asked Snape.  “The court will not accept that I allowed children to be tortured because a portrait told me I had to appear to obey the Dark Lord.” 

Simeon pursed his lips and looked over his notes. 

“Did you ever intervene?”  He asked.  “In punishments?” 

Snape nodded. 

“On several occasions,” Snape answered.  “The Minister’s questioning, in fact, relied on the knowledge of that fact.” 

“How so?” Simeon asked, leaning forward. 

“His intent appeared to be to prove that Alecto Carrow never cast the Cruciatus Curse on Samantha,” Snape explained.  “To get to that point, he established that I, in fact, had suffered from it and did so because I had stopped the Carrows from overseeing detentions.” 

Leaning back in his chair, Simeon raised his eyebrows and nodded.  It looked to Snape to be a good sign. 

“He’s done half the job for us, then.  If he’s smart, he wouldn’t even bother with you.  Aside from the fact that he has already helped you prove your loyalty, he knows that Mr. Potter would give evidence for you in court, doesn’t he?” 

“I should think he does,” Snape supposed.  “But what of Samantha’s appeal?” 

“Well, the content of her case aside, the procedural malfeasance alone warrants acquittal,” the older man said.  “Even as Minister, Mr. Shacklebolt has no authority to conduct trials like that.  He has not declared the wizarding community to be under martial law or in a state of emergency.  There are no laws that allow him to do what he did and I’m surprised the court allowed it to continue.” 

“The court was under the impression that she had been given due notice,” Snape said.

“Were they?” Simeon said more to himself than to Snape as he picked up his pen again and continued to write. 

“This is not the first time the Ministry has done this to someone facing trial,” said Snape, recalling the incident with Potter and the dementors that attacked his hulking Muggle cousin in broad daylight in Surrey.  He had seen the entire episode himself in Potter’s memories when he had tried to in vain to teach the boy Occlumency.  It had been mildly interesting to see the spawn of Lily’s judgmental sister, Petunia. 

“Neither Minister Fudge nor Scrimgeour were above using the court to achieve a desired outcome,” Simeon agreed.  “Well, I think I have everything I’m going to need right now.  I’ll send along the contract in the morning and do what I can to get into Azkaban to speak with Samantha.” 

Snape nodded, standing along with Simeon.  

“You tell me the moment you have any communication from the Ministry,” said Simeon, holding out his hand for Snape to shake.  Snape, for once, took it obligingly.  He wasn’t given to hand shaking – or much physical contact of any kind, if he could help it – but this man was exactly what they needed to get through the games the Ministry was trying to play with them. 

As promised the following morning, an owl alighted on Snape’s windowsill with the contract.  This one was similar to the first, though more thorough, and was inked on parchment.  A pink ribbon like the ones they used in the Wizengamot was tied around it. 

Along with the contract was a note from Simeon telling Snape that he had been successful in securing a visit with Samantha and that he would likely be there by the time Snape received his owl. 

Samantha’s morning began with the guard from the previous evening banging on her cell door, demanding that she get up. 

“You have a visitor,” he said gruffly.  She blinked at him from the other side of the bars, not awake enough to put the pieces of what he was saying into any semblance of order. 

When she didn’t move, he slammed a hand against the bars. 

“Move away from the door!” He shouted at her. 

She promptly did as she was told and he unlocked the door and allowed her to step out into the corridor.  Before she could take another step, he grabbed her arms and cast a binding spell.  Samantha’s gut reaction was to fight against it, but was, thankfully, able to quell that instinct quickly. 

The guard banged her cell door shut and then pushed her forward so that she would begin to walk down the corridor.  When they reached the door at the end of the corridor, he shouted at her to stop before going through the process of opening, closing, locking, and shoving all over again. 

Samantha scarcely had time to imagine who her visitor might be before they reached the door to the room where her mystery guest was waiting.  Again the guard shouted at her to stop before he opened the door to let her inside. 

The older man seated at the table was completely unknown to Samantha.  He stood, a polite smile on his face until he saw her bound wrists.  The guard had already slammed the door shut, so he walked with purpose to the door and pounded on it with the side of his fist. 

“What?” The guard said unceremoniously when he opened the door. 

“Take off her restraints,” the man said courteously, though firmly, pointing at Samantha’s wrists. 

The guard did as asked, but did not appear to be pleased by it, if the even louder slam of the door was anything to go by. 

“Now, Samantha, please sit down,” he said, gesturing to the chair as he moved back across the table. 

Simeon took in Samantha’s appearance.  Though disheveled, she certainly wasn’t the worst looking person he had ever met with in this room.  The barbarity of using dementors as guards had, thankfully, been done away with, but Azkaban still bore a greater resemblance to the Muggle prisons of centuries past, rather than the high tech facilities they now were. 

“I’m sorry, do I – do I know you?” Samantha asked when all the man did was look her up and down.  She wasn’t unnerved by it, he seemed concerned for her. 

“My name is Simeon Ward,” he said, holding out his hand across the table.  Samantha took it.  “I have been retained as counsel by your fiancée, Severus Snape.” 

Samantha took in a gasping breath and tears pricked her eyes. 

“Have they done it?  Are they trying him as well?” 

Simeon put his hands up to try to calm her. 

“No, no,” he said soothingly.  “Based on what happened in your trial, he seemed to think he might be needing me, so I will be his representative to the Wizengamot if it comes to that.  I am also going to be handling your appeal, if you agree to it.” 

Samantha nodded, not yet trusting her voice. 

As he had done with Snape, Simeon took a pad and a pen out from his bag and set them on the table.  Uncapping the pen, he held it aloft over the paper – which Samantha immediately recognized as a Muggle legal pad – and looked to Samantha to begin. 

“Well, I suppose you’re wondering if I did it,” she said with an edgy laugh. 

“I just want to hear, in your own words, exactly what happened and we will go from there,” he said, his voice calm, measured, almost drawing the words out of her. 

Once more, Samantha found herself relating the details of what had become for her the most harrowing ordeal of the whole war.  Thinking she had lost Snape certainly ranked highly, but the nightmares she’d been faced with since the night it had happened had prominently featured Dennis Creevey’s pale face contorted in pain.  Indeed, after learning of his fate at her trial, she had dreamed that it was she herself who had tortured him into insanity. 

“Once I find out what the final tally was on the vote, I can get to work on your appeal,” said Simeon when she had finished, offering no comment on her story.  

“The tally?” She asked, starting to get nervous again.  “Does that matter?” 

Simeon shrugged. 

“Yes and no,” he admitted.  “If it was a simple majority, the appeal is rather straightforward.  If it was an absolute majority, securing the right to appeal becomes a little more complicated.  Though given the circumstances of your case, it will only amount to another hoop to jump through.” 

“OK,” said Samantha, starting to regain some hope that she would get her life back.  Jumping through hoops, she could manage that. 

Simeon put his things back in his bag and walked around the table.  Leaning against it, he put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. 

“Try to keep your spirits up,” he said.  “I am going to do everything I can to reverse this miscarriage of justice.” 

She looked up at him then, tears beginning to roll down her cheeks. 

“Besides, if I fail and you’re stuck here, who knows what your fiancé will do to me?” He said, a smirk visible beneath his bushy beard. 

Samantha stared at Simeon in shock for a moment before bursting into laughter.  She could only imagine how Snape had described the situation to him. 

“That’s better.” 

With that, he gave her another pat on the shoulder and walked to the door.  The guard frowned at him through the small window before she heard the turn of the lock.  Once her solicitor was gone, the guard, rather too keenly she thought, re-cast the binding spell and marched her back to her cell.  

The moment Simeon regained his footing on terra firma after stepping off the ferry that shuttled to and from the shore and the prison, a harassed-looking barn owl flew at him and landed on one of the pier’s pillars.  It hooted at him angrily. 

As he read the hastily written note, the demeanor of the owl became all too clear.  

Severus Snape was to be tried by the Wizengamot for espionage, child endangerment, and murder.


	8. An Urgent Appeal

The Ministry had given Snape exactly 24 hours’ notice before his trial, just as they had done with Samantha. He had thought that even they wouldn’t believe that the same trick would work twice, but, then again, it _was_ the Ministry. At least they’d managed to mention that he’d been charged with a crime. 

Simeon seemed rather sanguine about the whole situation. As he had told Snape on their way into the Ministry, the Wizengamot was handing him an appeal on a silver platter if not an outright acquittal. 

As they made their way into the Atrium, they drew far more attention than they had just two days previous. With the savior of the wizarding world trailing on their heels, it was to be expected. That Samantha’s conviction had been written about at length in that morning’s _Daily Prophet_ only added to the furor. 

The same wizard who had taken Samantha’s wand was manning the security desk. Snape handed over his wand with a grimace; fairly certainly he wouldn’t be getting it back. He felt exposed without his wand. While he was capable of casting without it, his wandless magic was unfocused and slightly wild. It put Snape on edge to not have that slender bit of ebony up his sleeve. That sense of unease was, probably, exactly what they wanted him to be feeling. On the back foot, as Samantha had put it. Well, if nothing else, the Ministry was certainly proving itself very adept at that. 

Once both Simeon and Harry had had their wands inspected, the unusual trio made their way to the courtrooms. 

Again, the scene played itself out almost exactly as it had when Samantha had been in his place. The man in the dark robes attempted to manhandle Snape toward the dock, while Harry was escorted through another entrance. They had tried to do the same to Simeon, but he had made it absolutely clear that he was not to be separated from his client. 

Snape did not like the feeling of being back in the dock. In his last trial, he’d had Dumbledore to stand up for him. Not that he thought Simeon Ward was not up to the task of his hire, but having the Chief Warlock mount an impassioned defense was generally a foolproof way of avoiding a prison sentence. 

The gallery was certainly fuller than it had been for Samantha’s trial. There was hardly an empty seat. Snape grimaced and stared resolutely ahead. He rose obligingly when Shacklebolt strode into the courtroom and maintained a white-knuckle grip on the banister as his charges were read out. His jaw was beginning to ache from having to clench it shut so tightly. 

“Simeon Ward as representative for the accused,” Simeon announced immediately after the charges had been read. 

Kingsley appeared to be both annoyed and unsurprised by this turn of events. He frowned before speaking. 

“In previous trials,” Kingsley began in a low voice, “this court heard the associates of Severus Snape give evidence on the crimes he has committed over the previous two years. In the trial of Samantha Rhodes, the accused himself admitted to allowing the torture of students to occur during his tenure as headmaster of Hogwarts.” 

He paused and glanced around the room. 

“It is on the weight of this evidence that the court should convict Severus Snape of the charges just read.” 

Snape glanced at Simeon. The man’s face was unreadable. 

“The evidence given in these previous trials has not been made available to the accused nor, indeed, shared publicly in any way,” said Simeon, his voice expressionless. “The trials of accused Death Eaters have been conducted in closed courts.” 

“As is the court’s prerogative,” Kingsley responded. “The naming of co-conspirators must be kept confidential for the safety of those giving evidence and to prevent those named from fleeing.” 

“Until that evidence is relied upon for a conviction,” Simeon argued. “The Charter of Rights clearly makes provision for the accused’s right to face his accusers.” 

“The _court_ is his accuser,” Kingsley stated archly. 

“Will the court not be offering any witnesses to give evidence in this trial?” Simeon asked. 

“As I already said,” Kingsley responded hotly, “the court’s witnesses cannot give evidence openly.” 

“Would the court mind sharing what, exactly, the accused is said to have done?” 

Simeon had been involved in high profile cases before, but none quite like Severus Snape’s. Everyone knew _exactly_ what he had done. As with Samantha’s case, this would come down to intent, which the court would be hard-pressed to prove with the cast of characters its case likely relied upon. 

“That he did with forethought and intent commit the murder of Albus Dumbledore, that he engaged in the sharing of confidential information which on one occasion led to the murder of Alastor Moody and the maiming of George Weasley, and that he allowed and encouraged the use of the Cruciatus Curse on the students of Hogwarts during his time as headmaster,” said Kingsley. 

“And these are the incidents upon which the charges are based?” Asked Simeon. 

“They are,” Kingsley answered.

“In that case, may the defense present its first witness?” 

Kingsley eyed Simeon warily. 

“Yes.” 

“Very well,” said Simeon, settling into the defense he had prepared. “Severus Snape will now give evidence as to his actions which aided the Order of the Phoenix in winning the war against Voldemort but which now the Wizengamot categorizes as crimes.” 

Snape fought a smirk. On the whole, Simeon presented a very impartial face to the court, but he had his moments. 

“Professor Snape, do you deny having with forethought and intent committed the murder of Albus Dumbledore?” 

It was a hell of an opening salvo. 

“I do not,” Snape answered. 

“With whom was this murder planned?” 

“With Albus Dumbledore.” 

No one in the court was surprised. Much to his chagrin, Snape’s memories had already been examined and dissected in full by the public. 

“And why did he request that you kill him?” Simeon asked. 

“A few months previous, I entered into an Unbreakable Vow with Narcissa Malfoy, in which I promised to protect her son, Draco, and to carry out the order he had been given by Voldemort if he was unable to do so,” Snape explained. 

“What had he been ordered to do?” 

“He was ordered to kill the headmaster.” 

Simeon nodded and scanned his eyes over the judges, gauging their reactions. The Vow had not been public knowledge. 

“And this was the only reason?” 

Snape shook his head. 

“No,” he said. “In attempting to destroy one of the horcruxes made by Voldemort, the headmaster was cursed. I was, for a time, able to confine the curse to his arm, but it spread and would have killed him within the year.” 

“How much planning went into how you would kill him?” Simeon asked. “Did you…choose a date? A location?” 

Again, Snape shook his head. 

“It all depended on Draco Malfoy,” Snape explained. “I was to ensure that he was not to be the one to kill Dumbledore.” 

“On whose command was that?” 

“Dumbledore’s.” 

“And why would he want to make sure it was you who killed him and not Draco Malfoy?” 

Snape stared ahead for a moment, his eyes slightly unfocused, before answering. 

“To save his soul.” 

“As to intent,” said Simeon, “you used the Killing Curse, did you not?” 

“I did,” said Snape. 

It was an odd feeling, speaking of these things so publicly. Intellectually, he knew that everyone in the courtroom was already fully aware of what he’d done. However, Snape had so long lived his life in the shadows, that openly and honestly speaking about his actions still felt dangerous. As if he would be compromised if he revealed too much of his true self. 

“A curse that is not effective without intent. Is that correct, Professor?” Simeon asked. Snape could almost swear he was making a joke. 

“That is correct,” answered Snape. 

“One can assume, then, that you intended to kill Albus Dumbledore when you cast the Killing Curse,” Simeon concluded. 

“Yes.” 

“As a result of the order that you had been given to do so by Albus Dumbledore himself.” 

Snape responded again in the affirmative. 

“Now, as to the charge of espionage,” Simeon said. “Do you deny having engaged in espionage over the course of the war?” 

“I do not deny it.” 

“What was your role as a spy?” 

“I gathered intelligence on the Death Eaters for the Order of the Phoenix,” Snape explained. 

“Did you ever spy for Voldemort?” 

Snape drew a deep breath before responding. 

“I…did,” he said carefully. “During the first war. It was not…long before I – before my loyalties changed.” 

“And your actions during the first war are not at question here,” Simeon said, more to the judges than anyone else in the courtroom. “During the second war, were your loyalties always with the Order?” 

“Yes,” said Snape with some feeling. 

“Did you ever share confidential information with Voldemort?” Simone asked. “Information that, as the court suggests, could lead to the murder of Alastor Moody and maiming of George Weasley?” 

“In order to maintain the belief that I was a loyal Death Eater, I had to, at times, give Voldemort accurate information,” Snape explained. “The incident in question occurred when Harry Potter became of age and was moved from his home in Surrey to the home of Arthur Weasley.” 

“What information did you share?” 

“The date and time that the Order would move him.” 

“And could you know at that point that this would result in anyone’s death or injury?” 

“It would have been impossible to anticipate what would or would not happen,” said Snape, though he knew it was not really a defense. 

It was not often that Snape felt the urge to volunteer information. He didn’t particularly like the feeling. But there it was, pushing him to explain that he had confunded Mundungus Fletcher to get his plan to Moody, that the curse that disfigured the Weasley boy had been meant for a Death Eater with the Killing Curse upon his lips. Snape had not arrived at the Ministry that morning with the aim to prove to the Court that he was a good man, only that he had done what he had to do out of duty to Dumbledore. And yet, the words tumbled out in an effort to do just that. 

When he finished, Simeon paused for a moment before continuing his questioning. Snape recognized the tactic as one he used himself in his classroom. Silence proved the best form of punctuation. 

“And as to your time as headmaster,” Simeon continued, his voice measured and quiet. “Did you allow the use of the Cruciatus Curse on students?” 

Snape did not immediately answer. 

“We are waiting,” Kingsley said imperiously. 

He glared at the man, his former ally. 

“To say that _I_ allowed it is to misunderstand the situation,” said Snape. “Voldemort was the master of Hogwarts, I only its figurehead. To have countermanded his orders would have meant my death, as I told the court in the trial of Professor Rhodes.” 

Simeon eyed the judges meaningfully. 

“And what would your death have meant for the students?” 

“There would have been no one to stand between them and Amycus and Alecto Carrow,” Snape answered. “I was the last measure of protection they had. I cannot say that it was absolute because students _were_ hurt. But without me to stay their hand, the Carrows would have done unspeakable harm.” 

“They _did_ do unspeakable harm,” Kingsley argued. “As is evidenced in the condition of Dennis Creevey.” 

Simeon laid a hand on the banister of the dock to forestall Snape from arguing with the interrogator. 

“What happened to Mr. Creevey is tragic, but his current condition was caused by Alecto Carrow,” he said calmly. “She attacked him during the battle, long after Severus Snape had any control whatsoever over her actions.” 

Again, Simeon allowed silence to reign in the courtroom. 

“The defense would now like to call Harry Potter to give evidence,” he said at last. 

There was some murmuring in the gallery as he made his way to the witness box. Kingsley banged his gavel once to quiet the room. 

Once Harry had been sworn in, Simeon began his questioning on what some would call an odd note. 

“How would you describe your relationship with Professor Snape?” 

Harry stared hard at him. They had only had enough to time to do the barest amount of preparation for his testimony. A run through of all the questions Simeon had intended to ask was not in the cards. 

“Complicated,” was all he could think of to answer. 

“Is it fair to say that, until fairly recently, it was hostile?” Simeon asked, glancing at Snape before moving his eyes back to Harry. 

“Yes,” said Harry. 

“You…didn’t like Professor Snape, did you? Hated him, even?” Simeon prodded Harry. 

Harry shrugged uncomfortably. 

“I guess,” he grudgingly admitted. 

“But not anymore?” 

_“No,”_ Harry insisted. 

Simeon pursed his lips and nodded, as though confirming something in his own mind to which the rest of the court was not privy. 

“What changed?” 

“Well, I mean, I found out why he did…what he did,” said Harry. 

“Could you elaborate?” Simeon asked. “Why he did what?” 

“All of it,” said Harry, realizing as the words were coming out of his mouth that he wasn’t elaborating on anything. “I mean, why he was in the Order and spied for Professor Dumbledore and why he killed him and why he helped me.” 

“Can you tell the court how you came by this information?” 

Kingsley interrupted before Harry could continue. 

“We are all already aware of this story,” said Kingsley with a grimace. “There is no need to waste the court’s time with it.” 

“I would like for this to be entered as evidence in this trial,” Simeon argued. “The simple fact that it is in public discourse at the moment is not sufficient.” 

“Mr. Ward is correct, Minister.” 

It was the same judge who had spoken up in Samantha’s trial. Snape had since learned from Simeon that her name was Alice Ainsworth. 

“The evidence given in previous trials is permissible because it has been entered into the official record, but this story has not,” she continued, even as Kingsley looked to be losing his temper the longer she spoke. 

“Thank you, Judge Ainsworth,” Simeon said with a nod of his head toward her. “If I may, Minister.” 

Kingsley glared at him. 

“Continue,” he grunted, waving his hand irritably. 

“Mr. Potter, if you would answer the previous question,” said Simeon. “How did you come by the information regarding Professor’s Snape actions?” 

Harry had told the story before, countless times now. Knowing, however, that his telling of it could affect the verdict was as nerve-wracking as facing Voldemort. But as Hermione had once pointed out, he seemed to thrive in high stress situations. His thinking became clearer. And thus it was that as he began describing the sounds of Nagini attacking Snape and the sight of his professor on the floor in a pool of his own blood that details from the scene and what followed that had hitherto seemed lost to him began to reassert themselves in his mind’s eye. 

In an attempt to escape the discomfort of having the spotlight so blindingly shone on him and his past, Snape idly thought that if Potter could commit his studies to his memory half as well as he had this account of Snape’s memories, he would give Granger a run for her money. 

Nearly half an hour has passed before Harry was finished. The first genuine silence fell upon the courtroom. Snape did not like the way others reacted to learning of his past. He had lived through it and had not thought it particularly heroic or even interesting at the time. It had simply been his existence, and one which he had been certain would not extend beyond Voldemort’s defeat. A combination of sheer luck and Samantha’s stubbornness was all that had saved him. 

“Thank you, Mr. Potter,” Simeon spoke at last. “That will be all.” 

Harry nodded and got up to return to the gallery. He locked eyes with Snape as he walked past and nodded to him. 

“This venerable body has an illustrious record of promoting justice,” Simeon announced, looking over the judges as he spoke. It was a lie, of course, but one that would ingratiate their cause to the court. “On the one hand, you have the evidence given by those who, notwithstanding their individual characters, were meant to buy into the lie Severus Snape told them: That he was a loyal follower of Voldemort. That they accepted this lie could have meant his life or death. On the other, you have the evidence given by one who had likewise been convinced of that lie but through experiencing Severus Snape’s memories was shown the man he really is. What you are deciding here today is not what Severus Snape did, but _why_ he did it. And the man he has shown himself to be, the one described to you by Harry Potter, is not a man who committed a murder to better his own standing, but to save the soul of another. And did so without, I may remind you, any assurance it would not do irreparable harm to his own soul. This is not a man who encouraged the torture of students in his charge, but one who sought to prevent any harm coming to them and, as a result, was himself tortured by Voldemort’s own hand.” 

Simeon crossed his arms over his chest and cast his eyes down toward the floor for a moment before looking back up at the judges. 

“This is a man whose life depended on making you dislike him, making you distrust him,” Simeon spoke again. His voice was so quiet that Snape could see some of the judges lean forward to hear him better. “I ask you today to not use that to condemn him. The wizarding world demands justice in the wake of what it has experienced and the just verdict is to acquit Severus Snape of all charges.” 

“This is a man,” Kingsley echoed Simeon, “who made a living of deception. Who not only facilitated murder through treason, but who committed the act with his own wand. Who stood by while children – _our children_ – fell under the curses of Death Eaters. This court must make a stand and say to the wizarding world that this is no longer Voldemort’s Ministry and we will not allow these crimes to go unpunished. Death Eaters will be held accountable for their actions and order will be restored.”

Kingsley waited only a moment before speaking again. 

“I now call for a vote on the case put before us today, that Severus Snape did with forethought and intent murder Albus Dumbledore, that he did commit treason and, in so doing, caused the murder of the Auror Alastor Moody, and that he endangered the wellbeing of the minors entrusted to his care as headmaster of Hogwarts School.” 

There was a heavy silence before the voting began. 

“All those in favor of convicting the accused of the aforesaid charges,” Kingsley said loudly before thrusting his own hand into the air. 

Snape was beginning to understand why Samantha had fainted at this point in her own trial. He had not been subject to the same tension the first time he had been through this. With Dumbledore mounting his defense, the call for a verdict had been nearly symbolic. However, after what had happened to Samantha, Snape knew that nothing was certain. 

He watched with some trepidation as other hands began to join Kingsley’s. The court scribe stood at this point and counted the hands. She nodded at Kingsley, who dropped his hand. 

“All those in favor of full acquittal,” he said, the volume of his voice noticeable lower than it had been. 

Snape knew that more hands had been raised for his acquittal, but he also knew that the ratio could have an impact on the appeal process. 

Again, the court scribe counted the hands raised and made a note of the number. Before speaking to anyone, she sat back down at her table and made some notations on the parchment. Standing once more, she handed the parchment up to Kingsley. He read over it, his face giving nothing away. Snape thought he might himself lose consciousness if he had to wait one more second to hear his fate. 

Then, Kingsley took a breath to speak. 

“The vote being an absolute majority, the accused is acquitted of all charges,” said Kingsley sullenly. “This court is adjourned.” 

He banged his gavel and strode quickly out of the room, dodging all attempts by the other judges to speak to him. 

Snape’s relief was short-lived. _His_ trial may have ended well, but Samantha was still paying the price for the Ministry’s corruption. 

“Congratulations, Severus,” said Simeon, shaking Snape’s hand as he stepped out of the dock. 

“What can this do for Samantha?” Snape asked immediately. 

Simeon raised an eyebrow at his client, but appeared otherwise completely unfazed by his demeanor. 

“It can go some way in helping her appeal,” Simeon explained. “I think many of those who voted to convict her did so on the weight of their opinion of you. With this verdict, we can begin dismantle that argument.” 

“He mentioned Mr. Creevey again,” Snape remarked. One might have thought it merely off-handed, but very little of what Snape said was without intent. 

“Yes,” Simeon agreed. “Curious.” 

The pair left the courtroom, ignoring requests for comment on the proceedings. Harry met them in the corridor. He stared at his shoes and put such effort into avoiding eye contact with Snape that he may as well have been Medusa. 

“Potter,” said Snape in a low voice. Harry’s brilliant green eyes locked on his own. Snape quirked an eyebrow before speaking again. “What you said may help overturn Professor Rhodes’ conviction.” 

Potter’s eyes widened in shock. In truth, he had not expected to receive any acknowledgment whatsoever and had only been hoping that Snape would not be angry with how freely he shared the man’s memories. 

Before he could say anything in response, Snape had already turned on his heel and was walking back toward the Atrium with Simeon. Harry hurried to catch up. 

“What must happen now?” Snape asked. 

Simeon ducked to avoid a memo racing down the corridor before answering. 

“I file this with the clerk,” he said, holding up a stack of parchment tied with a pink ribbon. “It will get the appeal in motion so a date can be set on the court’s calendar.” 

“How long will that take?” 

Simeon shrugged. 

“Normally, it would be months,” he answered. “But given the circumstances of the case, I have asked for special attention to be given to it. It could be a matter of weeks or even days.” 

Snape grimaced. Dementors or no, weeks spent in Azkaban would be intolerable. 

“When can I visit her?” Snape just short of demanded. 

“Now that you’ve been acquitted, it will be much easier to get you on the visitor list,” said Simeon, pushing open a door with a brass plaque on it that read “Wizengamot Court Clerk.” 

Snape turned before following Simeon to find Potter standing awkwardly next to a potted plant. 

“Return to Hogwarts,” Snape told him. “Inform Professor McGonagall that she still has her Potions Professor.” 

Nearly taking the plant with him, Potter made immediately for the lift to take him to the Atrium from which he could floo back to Hogwarts. 

Snape turned back into the room and found Simeon already speaking to a man, whom Snape assumed was the clerk. The man, who was fairly tall and reedy with an unruly mop of curly brown hair on his head, was holding the bound stack of parchment Simeon had been carrying. He consulted a large book that was floating in the air beside him. 

“Severus, this is Addison Cartwright,” said Simeon as Snape came to stand beside him. Then, gesturing toward the book, “We were just discussing when we could get this on the docket.” 

Simeon explained to the clerk some of the more peculiar circumstances surrounding Samantha’s case. The clerk looked more than a little disturbed as he heard more about the breaches of process that had occurred. 

“I had nothing to do with how that case was handled,” Addison said once Simeon had finished. “The Minister had an irregular way of scheduling the Death Eater trials.” 

“She was _not_ a Death Eater,” Snape insisted. The dangerous edge to his voice started the clerk. 

“I didn’t it mean it like that!” He responded immediately, holding his free hand up in surrender. “But the Ministry included her and _your_ trial with the others. It’s not the first time things have been done like this and it’s not technically illegal, but ethically speaking, it isn’t entirely aboveboard.” 

“But the appeal – there won’t be any attempts to…” 

Snape allowed his sentence to trail off when Addison shook his head. 

“Has to be a different interrogator, doesn’t it?” He said. “The same judge cannot adjudicate both the original trial and the appeal.” 

“But the sooner this appeal can be addressed, the less chance anyone else has of trying to interfere,” Simeon reasoned. “Within the next two weeks would be ideal.” 

Addison gave him a look that suggested it was not ideal for him, but recognized the urgency all the same. He sighed and looked at the floating calendar. 

“Friday,” he said at last. “It’s the earliest this can happen.” 

“Friday it is,” Simeon said, writing in his own calendar. Four days was record time to get anything scheduled in the court, there was no point in trying to haggle for a different date. 

Back in the Atrium, after Snape had been allowed to retrieve his wand, Simeon stopped suddenly in front of the fountain. 

“Has anyone but the Minister spoken to Creevey?” He asked. 

Snape was not surprised that the question of Dennis Creevey’s health had caught Simeon’s attention. It had done the same to Snape. 

“I doubt it,” said Snape. 

“I think a trip to St. Mungo’s is in order,” Simeon murmured, more to himself than to Snape, as he began walking again toward the floos. 

Yet again McGonagall was eagerly awaiting Snape when he flooed into the headmaster’s office. He was not entirely certain she wasn’t fighting the urge to hug him. 

“Severus!” She cried. “Mr. Potter told me everything.” 

“Did he?” Snape muttered. 

“Mr. Ward, I have to thank you for your help with this,” she said, taking his hand in her own. 

“Don’t thank me until I can get all of your staff off the hook,” he responded. “Tell me, Dennis Creevey was in Gryffindor, was he not?” 

McGonagall nodded. 

“Can the two of you absent yourselves from the school tomorrow?” Simeon asked, looking from Snape to McGonagall. 

With their acquiescence, Simeon told them to meet him outside of St. Mungo’s the following morning and then turned on his heel and flooed back to his office, saying something about research. 

Snape made his excuses to McGonagall and the suddenly animated portrait of Dumbledore in order to retreat to his rooms. It was only late afternoon, but he had not felt this tired since before the war ended. He found himself wondering, not for the first time, how on earth he had actually survived. 

Settled in the familiar surroundings of his sitting room, the events of the day washed over him. He was lucky to be back in his home. He thought of Samantha. They had not been apart for this length of time since the previous summer – had it only been a year since then? – when he was forced to share his home with Wormtail. Snape wondered how she was coping. He knew her to be strong, but Azkaban had broken the strongest of witches and wizards. Snape also knew that if any harm to come to her, Kingsley Shacklebolt would be held accountable for it. 

That had been a surprise. Kingsley had always seemed to be one of the more levelheaded members of the Order, though that was not entirely difficult reputation to manage when you had Alastor Moody on one side and Sirius Black on the other. Between Kingsley’s time in the Muggle world and navigating the bureaucracy of the Ministry, Snape was sure he had the most realistic view of the world and his place in it. Perhaps it was the position. Scrimgeour, too, had been an effective Auror before becoming Minister. 

Whatever Kingsley’s motives, and Snape suspected that they would never quite understand how he thought he would get away with what he was doing, Snape swore the Ministry would not see the last of him until Samantha was fully and unequivocally pardoned. 

The next day, Snape’s students were delighted to hear that they would be left in the hands of Horace Slughorn yet again. Samantha’s students, on the other hand, did not relish the idea of study hall with Madam Pince. Though, thanks to the _Daily Prophet_ , they were all fully aware of why their teacher was not present – as were their parents. Snape had been in McGonagall’s office when the first howler arrived. He was sure there were many that followed.

Owing to McGonagall’s privileges as headmistress, they made short work of apparating to a side street near the abandoned department store front that hid St. Mungo’s from Muggle London. 

Simeon was already waiting for them and had taken it upon himself to gain entrance from the mannequin. Surreptitiously glancing around, the three stepped through the window and into the hospital. 

“Do you have an appointment?” Were the first words out of the decidedly unwelcoming Welcome Witch. 

Simeon took a breath to speak. 

“We are here to see –” 

He was cut off by a fight breaking out in the waiting room. The woman behind the desk jumped up and moved quickly to the pair. Snape didn’t wait long enough to find out what the argument was – though the injuries the two sported suggested they had been dueling – and instead, with a twitch of his head to Simeon and McGonagall, moved swiftly toward the lifts. The doors closed just as the Welcome Witch turned back to see they’d gone. 

They stepped off the lift and onto the fourth floor, which the voice emanating from the ceiling kindly informed them was reserved for “Spell Damage.” Between the victims of the first war and the committal of their erstwhile colleague Gilderoy Lockhart to the Janus Thickey Ward, both Snape and McGonagall had visited these halls far more times than either liked to think about. 

The witch seated at the ward desk greeted them with a smile plastered on her small face, a smile which faltered upon laying eyes on Snape. He frowned at her. She had likely been his student at some point. The name on her nametag – Janine – did nothing to help him place her face. 

Simeon stepped forward to draw her attention away from Snape. 

“Good morning, Janine. We are here to visit Dennis Creevey,” he stated, rather than asked. They hadn’t time to beat around the bush. It was likely the Welcome Witch from the lobby had already alerted security that they’d gotten past her. 

If she had wanted to, she could have denied them access, but Simeon’s confidence seemed to have been enough for her. In short order, they were led down the corridor to a private room. 

“This is Dennis’ room,” she announced, unnecessarily. 

Snape and McGonagall glanced at each other. 

“He is not in the long-term resident ward?” McGonagall asked carefully. She clearly remembered Kingsley telling her that the boy was not expected to recover. According to Snape, he had even said it in open court. 

Janine furrowed her brows in confusion. 

“I –” 

Before she could say anymore, a healer approached them. 

“Can I help you?” He asked, giving Janine a look that suggested her services were no longer needed. “I am Healer Gareth Baines.” 

“We are here to visit Mr. Creevey,” McGonagall told him. 

The healer frowned at her. 

“Dennis cannot receive visitors.” 

“Whether or not a woman remains imprisoned in Azkaban depends on this visit,” responded Simeon. “Dennis Creevey is the only witness who can speak to the truth of what happened and perhaps prevent a grave injustice from occurring.” 

“I must ask you to leave before you disturb my patients,” Baines demanded. “No one on this floor is in any state to be giving evidence.” 

Snape was beginning to lose his hold on his tongue. 

“Why is he not in the long-term resident ward?” McGonagall asked again, though the volume was decidedly elevated. “The Minister–” 

“Professor McGonagall?” Came a voice from inside the room. It was a boy’s. 

McGonagall stared at the healer in shock, a hand on her chest. Then, regaining herself, pushed past him and wrenched the door open. Baines stared on, helpless, as Snape and Simeon followed her into the room. The sight that greeted them stirred up a complicated blend of emotions. 

Dennis Creevey was sat in the bed, looking tired, but entirely lucid if the smile on his face at the sight of his head of house was anything to go by. 

“Mr. Creevey,” said McGonagall, sounding as though she was not sure of what she was seeing. 

He stared back at the assembled group in his small room. Baines stepped into the room and stood between the bed and McGonagall. 

“As you can see –” 

“He is perfectly able to see visitors!” McGonagall said, neatly finishing the healer’s sentence. 

Dennis tried to crane his neck around the healer. 

“The Minister visited me!” He said excitedly. 

_“Did he?”_ Snape asked dangerously, speaking for the first time since he had set food on the ward. Rather than looking at Dennis, however, his black eyes were fixed unblinkingly on Healer Baines. 

“Is the boy’s mother here?” Simeon asked Baines, maneuvering him away from Dennis and toward the door. At the man’s nod, he said, “Would you be kind enough to go get her?” 

Snape and McGonagall watched the healer reluctantly go before turning their attention back to Dennis. McGonagall sat next to his bed. 

“How are you feeling, Mr. Creevey?” She asked, her voice softer than Snape could ever remember it being. 

“I…I get shaky…sometimes,” he answered slowly. “Mum says it’s called a s-seizure. And sometimes I…” 

He glanced up at Snape nervously. Snape tried to arrange his face into something resembling, if not encouragement, at least indifference. 

“Nightmares,” he whispered at last. “About P-Professor Carrow.” 

The boy’s eyes filled with tears as he looked as McGonagall. 

“What do you want with my son?” Dennis’ mother demanded the moment she stepped foot in the room. When she saw McGonagall, she calmed slightly. 

“Mrs. Creevey,” McGonagall greeted the woman hesitantly. 

She nodded at the older woman before glancing at Snape and Simeon. Being a Muggle, she had only ever met Professor McGongall, who had come to the Creevey household when Colin received his Hogwarts acceptance letter. 

“Mrs. Creevey,” said Simeon, stepping forward with his hand extended. “I am Simeon Ward. I am here on behalf of Professor Rhodes –” 

“You’re Snape, aren’t you?” She demanded suddenly, ignoring Simeon entirely. 

Snape nodded, but wisely remained silent. 

“How could you let this happen?” 

Snape opened his mouth to explain that, in fact, he had already fled the school, been attacked by the Dark Lord’s snake, and then left for dead by the Golden Trio on the floor of the Shrieking Shack by the time Alecto Carrow tortured her youngest son, but McGonagall interrupted before he could utter a single syllable. A grieving mother was not to be trifled with. 

“Your son has the opportunity to right a wrong,” McGonagall said, attempting to draw the woman’s attention away from Snape. It worked, to a point. 

“What wrong is that?” 

“Professor Rhodes has been tried and convicted of torturing your son,” she continued carefully. “The Minister claimed that Dennis was unable to give evidence owing to his mental state.” 

“The Minister told me that they would be punishing the woman who did this to him,” said Mrs. Creevey. “But Dennis says the woman’s name was Alec…Alecto Carrow. Who is Professor Rhodes?” 

“She is our Muggle Studies teacher,” she explained. “Last year, while Professor Snape was headmaster, she taught Potions.” 

McGonagall related, with some help from Simeon, what Samantha had been subject to over the previous three days. Snape stood near the door, silent. He began to wonder why he had come at all, for all the use he had been in the situation. 

“If everyone knows that it was Alecto Carrow who did this to Dennis, then how did it get as far as conviction?” Mrs. Creevey asked. 

McGonagall and Simeon glanced at each other before looking back at Snape. That was his purpose, explaining how he had allowed torture as a disciplinary measure. 

“Sam–Professor Rhodes assigned a detention to Mr. Creevey,” Snape began. “On the Dark Lord’s orders, both Alecto and her brother Amycus were to carry out discipline at Hogwarts –” 

“Then why did she assign it?” Mrs. Creevey interrupted. 

“That…is a complicated issue,” admitted Snape. “I believe the incident occurred in a class with both Gryffindors and Slytherins. Were she to have ignored it, the Dark Lord would have been informed.” 

“Before the detention, she told me that she would go with him to protect him as best she could,” McGonagall added. 

“As best she could?” Mrs. Creevey repeated. 

“Both Professor Snape and Professor Rhodes were – that is, they had to maintain appearances,” McGonagall rather unhelpfully explained. 

Mrs. Creevey stared directly at Snape, wordlessly demanding an explanation. 

“We were spies,” he said simply. “As a result, she could not directly intervene in the detention. However, rather than allow Alecto Carrow to use the Cruciatus Curse on your son, which would have resulted in far more damage, she cast it herself.” 

“She _cursed_ him?!” Mrs. Creevey asked, her voice loud and anxious. “Why was I not told immediately? What is this curse?” 

“The Cruciatus Curse,” Snape repeated. “It is the…torture curse.” 

_“What!”_ The woman was properly screaming now. “She-she _tortured_ my son!” 

“No, mum, she saved me,” Dennis spoke up. “She didn’t want to do it. Professor Carrow cursed her first. She only did it to stop her doing it to me.” 

_“I don’t care!”_ His mother shrieked. “Your war already took one of my boys and now you tell me that this woman hurt my baby and you want him to help her get away with it?” 

The woman was bordering on hysterical now. Not that any of them could blame her for it. McGonagall stepped forward to try to calm her. Mrs. Creevey shrugged her off and stepped away toward her son’s bed. She sat heavily in the chair and raised a shaking hand to cover her face. 

“Mum,” Dennis said quietly. 

“He is _not_ leaving this hospital,” she said with a downward slice of her hand, though she sounded more defeated than angry. 

Simeon stepped forward. 

“He doesn’t have to,” Simeon said in a calming tone. “He can give evidence right from these four walls.” 

The woman looked up at Simeon, her face wary and tear-soaked. It would have been hard to blame her if she refused. Snape redirected his stare to the floor. He could hear his own heart beating as he waited for her answer. Mrs. Creevey sighed and his head snapped up. Snape watched as she glanced at her son, who, to his credit, looked as if he was trying to silently convince her that he should help his teacher. 

She held up one rigid finger before speaking. 

“I _will_ be present when this happens,” she said in a quiet voice. 

“Of course,” said Simeon.  
  
“And if he becomes upset, I will end it.” 

“That is your right,” he said. Then, turning to look at Snape and McGonagall before looking back at Mrs. Creevey, “We’ll leave you be.” 

She barely nodded as they left the room as she was already trying to get Dennis to lie back down in his bed. They could hear him speak quietly to her before the door swung shut. 

“I’ll be alright, mum,” he said encouragingly. “I can be brave like Colin.” 

McGonagall’s sharp intake of breath distracted Snape from dwelling on what the boy said. He looked up to find a burly security wizard, his wand gripped in his meaty fist. 

“We’ll be going now,” Simeon assured him. 

“Too right, you will,” the man grunted back. 

It was, perhaps, only in deference to McGonagall that they were not thrown bodily from the building. The man did, however, follow them every step of the way to the brick store front. He left them standing on the pavement with another grunted threat before stepping back through the window. 

“What happens now?” Snape asked immediately. 

“Now,” said, Simeon, “we get your fiancée out of prison.”


	9. Nunc Dimittis

“Severus!” Samantha cried as she woke with a start, groping in the dark for the source of comfort that wasn’t there.  As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she heaved a sigh and dropped her head back on the uncomfortable cot.  Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes before spilling down the sides of her face and pooling in her ears.  Crying seemed to be all she’d been capable of doing for the past few days. 

Angrily wiping at her face, Samantha swung her feet over the side of her cot to sit upright.  She shook her head side to side to get the water out of her ears.  There was no use in trying to get back to sleep.  She wasn’t even entirely sure it was still night.  It was always dark, even when she thought it must be the middle of the day.  The wet and cold managed to seep into the prison, but never the sun. 

She pulled her legs up and wrapped her arms around them, resting her chin on her knees.  As she idly tapped a rhythm on her shins, Samantha wondered if Snape had been tried yet.  Despite the lawyer’s assurances that Snape had only retained him as an assurance, she was certain that Kingsley was not going to squander the chance to put Snape in the dock.  

Alongside Snape and Dennis Creevey, Kingsley Shacklebolt had been a fixture in Samantha’s thoughts through the long days and nights.  Rather than revenge, Samantha felt confused and perhaps more than a little disappointed.  She had thought him better than this.  More than what she’d voiced in her conversation with Bill and Snape, what he was doing felt personal and vindictive.  This was not just a pragmatic way of shoring up power and it certainly wasn’t the justice for which they’d all fought. 

It made her fear for Snape’s chances.  He’d done much more – and much worse – than she had.  That he wasn’t particularly well-liked either did nothing to help him.  She wondered if they would live out their days together in Azkaban. 

Samantha laughed out loud suddenly, hysterically.  When had it come to this?  It seemed only yesterday that she’d been living and quiet and extremely comfortable life with her husband.  She’d fought a war since then, become a spy, and was branded a war criminal.  It was not what she had planned out for herself.  Her laughter continued before it turned into a wretched, keening sob.  

The guard banging on her cell was the only thing that quieted her. 

“You have a visitor,” he grunted at her.  “On your feet.” 

Once outside her cell, she was bound and told to start walking.  After waiting for the guard to close the door at the end of the corridor, Samantha began walking toward the room where he’d taken her to meet with her solicitor. 

“Where are you going?” He demanded, grabbing her roughly by the elbow.  Samantha winced as he pulled her around and then gave her a push to get her walking again in the opposite direction.  

They reached the door to a large room with barred windows all around it.  There were lots of tables in here.  As Samantha waited for the guard to open the door, she saw what she assumed was one of the other prisoners sitting at one of the tables with a woman.  She was crying as the rosy cheeked toddler in her lap played obliviously with a small toy. 

The rest of the room became visible to Samantha once the guard opened the door.  It was empty, save for one man seated at a table with his back to the door.  Samantha knew immediately who it was. 

“Severus!” She breathed.  He turned his head quickly at the sound of voice and stood to meet her. 

Samantha waited impatiently for the guard to remove the binding spell.  He walked her nearer to the table next to which Snape stood and finally released her.  Without thinking, her arms flew around his neck. 

“No contact!” Shouted the guard.  He pulled her arms back and pushed her toward the other side of the table. 

Snape glared at the guard, but Samantha shook her head.  She held her hands up in surrender and sat across the table from him.  He eyed them both suspiciously before moving to stand by the door where another guard, presumably the one who had brought the man, was already posted. 

“How –” 

A strangled noise escaped from Snape’s throat as he cut himself off.  _How are you?_   What kind of question was that? 

“Have you gotten a trial yet?” Samantha asked eagerly, not waiting for Snape to find his voice. 

Much as she was happy to see him and wanted to simply sit in silence with him, Samantha was more concerned with collecting as much information as she could. 

Snape nodded. 

“What did they charge you with?” 

Snape sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.  He looked little better than she did. 

“Espionage, child endangerment, murder,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand that was at odds with the severity of what he was saying. 

“And the trial?  Is it – I mean, has it –” 

“It’s done,” said Snape.  “I was acquitted.” 

“Oh, thank God,” said Samantha, grabbing his hand without thinking. 

The guard was next to their table at once, wand drawn. 

“I said, _no contact_ ,” he hissed at her. 

Samantha withdrew her hand at once and gripped the edge of the table. 

“One more time and you’re back in your cell with no visitor privileges,” he warned her before stalking back to the door. 

She almost started crying again.  Perhaps worse than anything else was the dehumanizing process she felt like she was undergoing.  First was the loss of her identity of the trial, when Kingsley had reduced her to nothing more than “the accused.”  It had only worsened once inside Azkaban.  There were no names used in the prison and the prisoners were even barred from conversing amongst themselves.  Now the simple act of human contact was taken from her.  Samantha felt like she was losing herself. 

Snape saw the desperation plainly on her face.  It pained him to know how little he could do to help. 

“Your appeal has been set,” he said.  “It will be heard on Friday.” 

Samantha looked at him blankly.  She licked her dry lips. 

“I – I don’t know what day it is,” she admitted. 

“Wednesday,” he said quietly.  He remembered all too well the sense of time loss that came along with incarceration.  

“How are my classes?” Samantha asked suddenly.  She’d had such plans for them and only hoped her credibility hadn’t been completely lost when they found out what she’d done. 

“I think you’ve just proven that you’re a better teacher than I,” said Snape, a smirk on his face. 

Samantha gave a small, somewhat forced smile in response.  It was hard to see the light side of anything at the moment. 

“I mean it, though,” she insisted.  “How are they?” 

Snape sighed again. 

“They know,” he said, rather vaguely.  “There have been some…questions.  Concerns from parents.” 

“Minerva’s not –” 

Snape shook his head immediately. 

“Absolutely not,” he assured her.  “Your position is safe.” 

Samantha looked again at the woman with the toddler.  She was getting up now, preparing to leave.  Instinctively, the child reached out for the man, whom Samantha assumed was his father. 

“No contact!” Yelled the other guard. 

The woman pulled the child back at once, both mother and child were crying now.  They were quickly ushered out while the man was restrained.  Samantha could feel tears well in her eyes. 

_“This place,”_ she whispered, her eyes still on the scene.  “This _goddamned_ place.” 

Snape glanced over his shoulder before turning back to Samantha. 

“You will get out,” he said.  “We have witnesses to give evidence –” 

“Who could you possibly have that would convince the court?” Samantha demanded, her despondency quickly becoming anger. 

“Ginevra Weasley and Dennis Creevey,” Snape answered in a firm voice. 

Samantha’s eyebrows shot up her forehead. 

“Dennis?  How?  Kingsley said –” Her eyes hardened.  _“That bastard.”_

Snape nodded. 

“He is in St. Mungo’s, that much is true,” Snape allowed.  “He is suffering from the physical aftereffects of Carrow’s attack more than anything else, but he is completely lucid.” 

“You’ve seen him?  Spoken to him?” Samantha asked, her breathing shallow.  She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. 

“I, along with Minerva and Simeon, went to St. Mungo’s just yesterday,” Snape confirmed. 

“And he said he would give evidence?  Even after what I…” 

“Don’t,” Snape said immediately.  “ _Don’t._   He knows what position you were in and is determined to help you.  In fact, he is giving his evidence today.  His mother forbade him to leave St. Mungo’s, but Simeon has secured a judge to take his statement.” 

Samantha sat quietly for a moment, trying to wrap her mind around it all.  Then she drew a breath to speak. 

“What do you think of him?” She asked, adding when he gave her a blank look, “Simeon.” 

She kept her face neutral as she waited for his answer. 

Snape fidgeted in his chair.  He was not accustomed to heaping praise on anyone and he found it was all he had to say about the man. 

“He’s very –” 

Snape stopped himself, having almost called the man “useful.”  It was that kind of language that had landed both he and Samantha in this position to begin with. 

“He’s very committed,” Snape said at last.  “He handled my trial well and I am…confident in his ability to handle your appeal.” 

“You like him,” Samantha stated.  She gave him a small smile.  “You’re allowed to express that feeling, Severus.  He would be a very good friend to have.” 

Snape nodded, looking a little sheepish. 

“Wait,” said Samantha, her brow furrowed.  “Did you say Ginny Weasley is testifying?” 

“Giving evidence, yes,” said Snape, frowning at her Americanism.  “Something to do with a detention?” 

Samantha’s mouth formed an “o” when she recalled the incident. 

“Did you tell her?” Snape asked, sounding a bit like he was talking to one of his students. 

“I might have done,” Samantha admitted.  “A little.” 

“Revealing your true loyalties is never done in halves,” he chided her.  “What exactly did you say to her?” 

Samantha pressed her lips together before answering, only realizing now how stupid and dangerous it had been of her to be so free with information. 

“I…asked her if she thought I was loyal to the Dark Lord,” said Samantha. 

“And?” Snape prompted her. 

“She said no,” she answered.  “And I told her not to tell anyone.” 

_“Samantha,”_ he said, the frustration clear in his voice. 

“In my defense, my position was not like yours,” she argued.  “The Order did not have to think I had turned.” 

“No, but the _children_ did,” he responded. 

Samantha rolled her eyes. 

“By that point, Ginevra Weasley was as good as an inducted member of the Order.” 

She gave a frustrated huff. 

“Can we not fight right now, Severus?” She asked.  “Can you wait to criticize me until after I’m out of prison, perhaps?” 

Snape had the good sense to at least _look_ chastened. 

“Of course,” he said. 

They spent the rest of Snape’s short time at the prison talking about what was going on at the school.  It was not long before the guard had approached the table and brusquely told Snape it was time to go.  He was back at Hogwarts by lunch, rather glad to relieve Slughorn of his duties. 

Snape’s afternoon class was Double NEWT Potions with Gryffindor and Slytherin.  He suspected they had been looking forward to an afternoon of leisure with Slughorn, if the looks of dismay on their faces when they saw him in front of the chalkboard were anything to go by. 

“How any of you managed to make it this far in Potions is beyond my comprehension,” Snape began encouragingly.  “Be that as it may, I have an impeccable record of students passing their NEWT exams.  It would…behoove you to not tarnish that record.” 

He saw a couple of the students glance at each other doubtfully, as if to say that he couldn’t touch them once they’d finished their exams. 

“References for employment after you’ve left school carry as much weight as exam results,” Snape said threateningly.  “If you are in my NEWT class, I can only assume you’ve chosen employment in which Potions figures heavily.  A bad reference from me will kill your career before it can begin.” 

A few students straightened up at that.  Over the past few years, he had to admit the school had not done its job in helping graduating students find employment.  Or, indeed, given them enough direction and support in figuring out what they wanted to do.  Many Muggleborns, he knew, had gone on to attend Muggle universities to better round out their education.  The lack of magical higher education – with the exception of apprenticeships – was a problem that needed solving if wizarding culture was to progress. 

“Now,” Snape said, his voice quiet.  “Let us see what you remember from last year.” 

Snape knew it wasn’t terribly fair to challenge them on what they could remember from the previous year, given all that had happened.  However, if they could remember a potion they’d learned while living, essentially, in a warzone, they’d be able to remember anything. 

“Brew me the Draught of Living Death,” he said.  He pointed his wand at the blackboard where the ingredients snaked across its surface. 

Stalking around the room, Snape realized that he hadn’t taught a single Potions class in two years.  As much as he had always coveted the Defense post, once he had it, he missed his dungeon classroom.  He felt back in his element, and without the overwhelming threat of either Voldemort of Dumbledore hanging over his head.  For the first time since he could remember, he felt…comfortable.  Were his fiancée not currently locked up in Azkaban, he might have gone even as far to say that he was happy. 

At dinner that evening, Snape received an owl from Simeon with the news that Dennis Creevey’s statement had been successfully obtained.  He further related that the healer had submitted an affidavit reporting on the boy’s health.  The document proved that Creevey was competent to give evidence but also that he was to be unavailable as a witness during the hearing itself because of his physical health. 

“What news, Severus?” McGonagall asked, watching his face as he read Simeon’s letter. 

Snape wordlessly handed the letter to her.  It was possibly the best news he’d gotten all week.  There had been some concern that the evidence would not be admissible because Creevey could not be present.  That the healer actually submitted an affidavit was nothing short of a miracle, seeing as he’d had them removed from the hospital only two days before.  Snape resolved to buy the finest bottle of Ogden’s he could find for Sturgis Podmore the moment this entire ordeal was over. 

Friday morning found Snape in the Entrance Hall, waiting for Ginny Weasley to join him so that they could apparate to London for the hearing.  The moment she approached him, he merely grunted and turned around to open the doors.  She followed him over the grounds to the gates.  After tapping them with his wand to lock them, Snape grudgingly held his arm out for the sidealong apparition. 

Ginny glared at his arm, clearly affronted. 

“I can apparate myself,” she argued. 

Snape raised an eyebrow at her cheek. 

“Do you know where we’re going?” He asked silkily. 

She didn’t answer him. 

_“No,”_ he answered for her and again put his arm out. 

She placed a hand on his forearm and less than a second later they reappeared in London.  Snape gratefully handed her off to her parents, who had been waiting next to the visitors’ entrance alongside Simeon.  In two groups, owing to the small size of the phone box, they made their way into the Ministry and through the Atrium toward the lifts. 

The room for the appeal hearing was significantly smaller than the theatrical courtroom in which criminal trials were conducted.  There was room for ten judges at the bench, while the gallery held no more than twenty spectators.  

Simeon had explained on their way down to the courts that all ten chairs would be taken, owing to the seriousness of both the original trial and the grievances that Simeon had cited in his appeal application.  One of the judges who had voted to convict Samantha in the previous trial would act as the representative for the court.  Unlike in the Wizengamot trials, the verdict would not be publicly voted upon.  They would take an adjournment and return with their decision, which had to be at least an absolute majority to be valid. 

Snape watched from the gallery as Samantha was led into the room.  She glanced up at him and gave him a tight smile, the anxiety clear on her face.  The binding spell was removed and she rubbed her wrists as she spoke quietly with Simeon. 

A side door opened suddenly and the ten Appeals judges strode in to stand behind the bench.  The presiding judge banged his gavel and everyone re-seated themselves. 

“The Wizengamot Court of Appeals convenes today to rehear the case of Samantha Rhodes, convicted of the malicious and intentional use of an Unforgiveable Curse on a minor,” the Court Scribe read out.  “The Right Honorable Lord Justice Pickering presiding. 

“Simeon Ward to represent Professor Rhodes,” Simeon stated. 

The judges nodded at him.  He nodded back, smiling.  Snape took this as a good sign.  The man sitting at the table next to Samantha and Simeon stood up.  He was of a similar build to Snape, though the voluminous robes he wore went some way in hiding his thin frame.  He had a heavy brow and a dark complexion, with equally dark hair. 

“Judge Cecil Paget to represent the court,” he said. 

“So recognized,” said Pickering. 

Each representative was allowed an opening statement, starting with the court representative.  Paget read his statement out in a manner that suggested he did not believe a single word he was saying.  It was little more than a recitation of all that Kingsley had said in the trial.  Snape had a suspicion that, while the judge may have voted to convict Samantha in the first place, his heart may not have been still in it. 

“Yes, well, Mr. Ward,” said the judge after Paget had finished.  The appeal judges looked just as confused as Simeon did. 

“Thank you, my lord,” Simeon said, putting his pen down as he stood.  He nodded to Paget.  “My learned friend.” 

Paget grimaced and nodded. 

Simeon breathed in deeply and looked every judge in the eye. 

“The trial that sent this young woman to Azkaban was itself criminal,” he began.  “Professor Rhodes was not given due notice, which allowed her to neither obtain counsel nor provide witnesses in her defense.  She was never informed of the criminal charges against her until the moment her trial began and was therefore never properly charged and processed or informed of her rights.  In addition, in the course of Professor Rhodes’ trial, Minister Shacklebolt informed the court that the victim of this incident, Mr. Dennis Creevey, could not be called as a witness due to his having been rendered permanently insane by Alecto Carrow.  It has since been learned that Mr. Creevey is in fact of sound mind and that the mother of the victim was also lied to by the Minister.” 

Simeon, wisely, used no flourishes, no rhetoric to state his case.  Merely relating the facts themselves would no doubt prove enough to convince the judges, particularly when taking into account Paget’s lackluster performance. 

“It is our understanding that the defense has witnesses who did not give evidence in the trial,” Pickering said. 

“That is correct, my lord,” Simeon answered.  “Mr. Dennis Creevey’s evidence has been submitted along with an affidavit from his healer confirming that he is competent to give evidence, but owing to his physical condition cannot be present in court.” 

“That evidence is so received,” the judge affirmed, holding up a stack of parchment bound in the familiar pink ribbon. 

“Miss Ginevra Weasley is our witness who is present today in court, if the court will hear her,” Simeon offered. 

“You may call your witness,” Pickering allowed. 

“Defense calls Miss Ginevra Weasley to give evidence,” said Simeon, gesturing for Ginny to leave the gallery. 

The girl could be cowed by no one, Snape concluded, as she stared down the court representative who had voted to convict Samantha.  She swore the oath without a trace of nerves in sight. 

“Miss Weasley, you are in your seventh year at Hogwarts School, is that correct?” Simeon asked. 

Ginny answered in the affirmative. 

“In the previous school year, Professor Rhodes was your Potions professor, was she not?” 

“She was,” said Ginny, glancing at Samantha. 

“On the evening of September 3, you served a detention with Professor Rhodes,” Simeon stated.  “Why did you receive the detention?” 

“I gave all the Slytherins in the class puking pastilles,” she admitted, though did not appear to be in the slightest bit embarrassed by it. 

Some of the judges had to stifle laughs behind their hands. 

“Indeed,” said Simeon.  “What did you discuss in the course of this detention?” 

“Professor Rhodes asked me if I thought she was my enemy and if I thought she had turned dark,” Ginny answered. 

“And what did you say?” 

“I said no.” 

“What did Professor Rhodes say then?”  Simeon asked, gesturing toward Samantha. 

“She told me not to tell anyone that she wasn’t a Death Eater and to avoid the Carrows,” Ginny said, before adding, “And to not start a rebellion in her classroom.” 

Some of the judges outright laughed at that.  Snape, meanwhile, could see why Samantha had seen fit to let the girl in on her secret.  In light of both her family’s reputation and her association with Potter, Ginny Weasley was already a prime target for the Carrows.  In order to truly convince the girl that she’d had her best interests at heart, Samantha would have had to reveal herself.  

“Thank you, Miss Weasley,” he said with a smile.  “That is all.” 

“Does the Defense have anything further to add?” Pickering asked Simeon. 

“Only this: Professor Rhodes’ husband was murdered by Voldemort,” he said.  “She came to Hogwarts with no agenda.  She was there to teach Muggle Studies and to do research on a cure for lycanthropy.” 

He smoothed his mustache and glanced down at Samantha, who was staring at the table. 

“She spent the war passing vitally important information between Professor Snape and the Order of the Phoenix,” he continued.  “Indeed, put her life in danger in order to do so.  She has, since the end of the war, stayed on at Hogwarts and again taken up the Muggle Studies post.  To me, that is not the story of a woman who would torture a child to prove herself to Voldemort.  I ask you to vacate the conviction not only on the basis of the Wizengamot’s procedural irregularity, but on the basis of her innocence of the crime with which she was charged.” 

It was a bold statement to make and carried with it some risk.  However, as Snape looked at the row of judges, none of them seemed particularly shocked or in disagreement with what Simeon had asked of them.  

The presiding judge called for a short adjournment in order to discuss their decision.  Simeon bent over to speak to Samantha before walking over to the gallery to where Snape sat. 

“This should be quick,” he said.  “They usually clear the court if they expect to take any longer than twenty minutes.” 

“What does that mean for us?” Snape asked, not prepared to jump to conclusions.  Snape mused that he had probably asked more questions of Simeon Ward than he had ever asked anyone else in his entire life (save, perhaps, for Dumbledore).  

“I am fairly optimistic that they will find in our favor.” 

“How did I do, Mr. Ward?” Ginny asked, walking over to the two men. 

“Magnificent,” he answered with a wink.  “Always keep them laughing.” 

Snape looked over Simeon’s left shoulder to Samantha, who was watching them nervously.  Simeon followed Snape’s line of sight and took his leave, saying that he should get back to his client.  Snape caught Samantha’s eyes and gave her a nod.  He hoped he look reassuring.  It was an expression he’d not had much experience with. 

Not ten minutes later, the judges filed back in. 

“The court has come to unanimous decision in the case presented to us today,” Pickering announced. 

Snape watched Samantha, who had closed her eyes and was silently mouthing something – a prayer, he suspected. 

“The Wizengamot, and Minister Shacklebolt in particular, overstepped its authority in nearly every aspect of this case,” he began.  Snape felt the tightness in his chest begin to relax.  “That there were procedural irregularities goes without saying.  More than that, however, the conviction of Samantha Rhodes was based in great part on lies told by our highest officials.” 

At this, Pickering glanced meaningfully at Paget, who looked as though he would much rather be hiding under his table. 

“It is this court’s opinion that Samantha Rhodes is innocent of the crime with which she was charged and subsequently wrongfully convicted.  Further, it is this court’s decision that her conviction be vacated on that basis.” 

Pickering banged his gavel. 

“This court is adjourned.” 

Samantha felt the breath leave her lungs in a rush.  She covered her face with her hands as tears began to stream down her face.  Vaguely registering Simeon’s hand patting her shoulder, she simply sat in stillness for a moment, allowing the events of the day to sink in. 

She was innocent.  It was official. 

Hearing Snape say her name refocused her attention.  Samantha looked up to see him standing next to her, already reaching to pull her out of her chair.  She clung to him desperately.  As much optimism and bravado as Simeon had shown through her appeal process, there was always a part of her that was stricken with worry that it would be denied and she would be sentenced to life in Azkaban. 

Once she had been given her clothes back, Samantha and Snape made their way up to the Atrium so she could retrieve her wand.  After how little thought she’d given to her wand when she’d been living in the Muggle world, it was surprising how much relief she’d felt when that ten inch length of beech wood was in her hand once more. 

Snape made for the row of floos in the Atrium, but Samantha stopped him. 

“Outside,” she said.  “I need to go outside.” 

After profusely thanking Simeon and Ginny, Snape and Samantha found themselves on a sunny London sidewalk.  Samantha leaned against the phone box and closed her eyes. 

“I’d never had a particular love of the sun before,” said Samantha quietly. 

Snape watched her carefully, but remained silent.  He stepped alongside her as she began to walk down the sidewalk.  Allowing Samantha to chart their course, he was struck by how well she knew the streets.  Snape had been in the city often enough, but tended not to stray far from wizarding landmarks.  Samantha, however, was winding through back streets and small walkways.  After two hours, they had circled Hyde Park and were back on the Thames near Covent Garden. 

Leaning against the railing of Waterloo Bridge, watching the riverboats float by, Samantha realized that she had not said much more than “this way” or “turn right” to Snape since they’d left the Ministry. 

“I haven’t been neglecting you, have I?” She asked, only feeling mildly guilty for it. 

Snape shook his head. 

“I never realized how at home you were here,” he answered.  He couldn’t quite bring himself to meet her eyes. 

Samantha raised an eyebrow and quirked her mouth. 

“Neither did I,” she admitted.  “I didn’t realize how much I missed it.” 

Snape felt a stab a panic in his chest.  Samantha immediately read the look on his face. 

“Don’t worry, I’ve no plans to leave Hogwarts.” 

She pushed off the railing and laced her fingers through his as she began walking again. 

“Retirement, perhaps,” she continued.  “Would you like that?” 

Snape was at a loss.  Retirement?  He’d spent most of his life assuming he would not live out the year, he had never once given a thought to what he’d do in his twilight years. 

Again, Samantha could see the uncertainty etched across his face. 

“Why don’t we start with a holiday home?” She amended.  “We’ll find a place together after I sell my flat.” 

“What’s brought all this on?” Snape asked. 

Samantha shrugged. 

_“Everything,”_ she answered.  “The war, the trial…” 

She gestured to the ring on her finger. 

“This.” 

Snape nodded.  He understood, he truly did.  But it didn’t change that he was feeling a little overwhelmed by it all.  Teaching, spying, fighting – that was his life.  What did he know about buying a home?  He’d inherited his parents’ house in Spinner’s End and hadn’t changed a thing about it, save for incinerating everything that had belonged to his father.  And Snape wasn’t even sure he’d ever been on a proper holiday. 

Trying to push aside his anxiety, Snape glanced down as Samantha.  She was smiling beatifically as she gazed out over the river and he felt his entire chest constrict until he was nearly breathless.  He was going to marry this woman; this beautiful, strong, intelligent, infuriating, stubborn, perfect woman. 

Samantha looked up at Snape, completely unaware of the torrent of emotion he was feeling. 

“Let’s go home.” 

Back at Hogwarts, Samantha’s first port of call was the longest and hottest shower she could endure.  Then she was off to McGonagall’s office, prepared, despite what Snape had said about the security of her position, to mount an impassioned defense for her continued employment. 

“Minerva,” Samantha greeted her when she’d reached the top of the stone staircase.  The door to the headmistress’ office was already open. 

“Samantha!” McGonagall cried, rising from her desk and rushing to her. 

Samantha was more than a little surprised to be enfolded in a hug.  Once released, McGonagall led her through the office and into her sitting room where she ordered tea.  Samantha put far more sugar than was necessary in her cup simply because she could. 

“How are you?” McGonagall asked once they were settled. 

“I’m fine, Minerva, honestly,” Samantha assured her.  “It was only a week.” 

“Only a week?  A week of wrongful imprisonment!” McGonagall countered.  “I’ve been to Azkaban before.  I don’t know how anyone lasts more than an hour.” 

Samantha shrugged. 

“Simeon and Severus both visited,” she said.  “I don’t think I would have made it had the dementors still been there.” 

“We have Sturgis to thank for Simeon,” said McGonagall, taking a sip of her tea.  “If we hadn’t found him…” 

Samantha put a hand up to stop her. 

“I can’t even think about it.” 

Samantha fidgeted in her seat. 

“What is it?” Asked McGonagall. 

“Severus said – well, with my imprisonment, there was some…concern…expressed by the parents,” Samantha began unevenly.  “I wanted to express my desire to continue in my –” 

“Not another word,” McGonagall demanded.  “Of all the – of course you are in no danger of losing your post!  Those parents need to take their heads out of their –” 

She was interrupted by Dumbledore’s portrait calling from her office.  Samantha followed the older woman back into the office. 

“What is it, Albus?” 

Dumbledore’s attention was not on McGonagall, but on Samantha. 

“Ah, Samantha!” He cried, clapping his hands together once.  “I just awoke and Phineas here was telling me that you had returned.” 

Samantha nodded solemnly at the Slytherin headmaster’s portrait.  He had a terrible manner about him when it came to those he considered “lesser,” but Samantha found that if she affected a more traditional way of interacting with him that he became quite helpful. 

“Headmaster,” Samantha said evenly.  Snape had nearly been put in Azkaban thanks to his scheming; she wasn’t quite ready to forgive him for it. 

Before he could launch into any questioning, Samantha turned to McGonagall and nodded to her. 

“Minerva,” she said, turning pointedly away from Dumbledore’s portrait.  “If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to speak with Madam Pince about my classes this week and get to work on revising my calendar to make up for the lost time.” 

McGonagall nodded wordlessly.  

“Thank you,” she said, already stepping out the door. 

After Samantha had closed the door, McGonagall looked up to Dumbledore’s portrait. 

“I’m not sure you’re ever truly going to get her back on your side, Albus,” said McGonagall seriously. 

“She saw the worst of me,” he admitted, looking toward the door through which Samantha had just disappeared. 

McGonagall drew a breath to reply, but Dumbledore’s painted figure was already retreating from the frame. 

“Well, how do you like that?” She said aloud, looking between the empty frame and the closed door. 

“What do you expect?” Came the voice of Phineas Black from his portrait.  “No one has any manners anymore.” 

“Oh, shut up, Phineas,” McGonagall snapped at the former headmaster before retreating to her sitting room. 

“Bloody Gryffindors,” he muttered before leaving his own portrait.


	10. The New Normal

"Alright," said Samantha, closing her attendance book. She sat in silence for a few moments, watching as her students did everything they could not to make eye contact. The first years could be heard outside at their first flying lesson. A chair creaked as someone shifted their weight.

Then, one tentative hand was in the air.

"Yes, Miss Callow," said Samantha.

The young Hufflepuff glanced around at her classmates before finding the nerve to ask her question.

"Is it true? About Dennis?"

Samantha drew in a deep breath and steepled her hands on the desk.

"In a nutshell," she said. "Yes."

There was an audible gasp and some quiet murmuring.

"However," she continued, a little more loudly to quell the building commotion. "I suspect that the story you've heard is not entirely true."

Samantha pushed herself up and rounded her desk. Leaning against it, she crossed her arms and ankles.

"I doubt any of you will soon forget what this class was like under Professor Carrow," Samantha began. "Most of you were even spared the worst. What you have to understand –"

She stopped for a moment, wondering how fully she was prepared to explain the situation. She looked at their faces. Many of them had been in the fighting, had experienced losses. Well, in for a penny…

"With the exception of the Carrows, none of us wanted to give detentions. And I wouldn't have assigned that one had circumstances been different. As it was, a Gryffindor attacking a Slytherin was not going to be ignored."

Samantha saw some of Slytherins – the few who did take her class – bristle at her words.

"That is not to disparage _our_ house," she said, looking directly at them. "But the fact of the matter is that, just like Professor Snape, I had to make everyone around me believe that I was a Death Eater. If I had not reprimanded Mr. Creevey, it would have put myself and, even more so, Professor Snape in danger of being found out. And that would have been disastrous."

She looked around the room, trying to impart just how disastrous that would have been. Some of the students shifted in their seats as her gaze passed over them.

"My sole intent in doing what I did was to protect Mr. Creevey. It may not seem like it because of what I had to do to achieve that, but if Professor Carrow had been given her chance, he may have been killed."

"What did you have to do? As a – as a spy?" Asked one of the Gryffindors.

Samantha considered the question before answering.

"My role was to pass information between Professor Snape and the Order of the Phoenix," she explained. "None save for myself knew the truth of Professor Snape's situation. It was therefore important to have someone who could be seen publicly as loyal to Voldemort, but whom the Order could rely upon for information about his plans."

"But you used an Unforgiveable. Why should anything else matter?" Asked one of the Gryffindor girls. If memory served, Samantha thought she and Creevey had been friends.

"Nothing is ever black and white – especially not in the middle of a war," said Samantha evenly. "I did not like what I had to do – _and nor did Professor Snape_. We did it because it was the only way to ensure that we could be sitting here today talking about it like this."

Samantha pushed off her desk and began to walk through the aisles of desks as she continued speaking.

"This is something crucial that I think all your teachers are trying to pass on to you in our own ways," she said. "Life is complicated and messy and the moment you start thinking there is only one right way to do something is the moment you begin to demonize those who don't see things your way. That is what starts wars. Muggles were dehumanized because they were different, they didn't fit into the black and white world envisioned by Voldemort. And _that_ is why this class exists. When you experience someone else's culture – whether it be through their food, their art, their religion – you see them as a person, fully formed."

By this point in her monologue, Samantha had made her way back to the front of the classroom, once more leaning on her desk.

"I am not proud of what I did," she continued in barely more than a whisper. "In and of itself, it was not a good or moral act. But in the situation in which I found myself, it was the only way I could think of to both save his life and not lose the war."

Finished, Samantha sat back down behind her desk. From the looks on their faces, she was beginning to think this was the first time an adult had ever spoken to them so frankly about the war they had all just lived through. They had certainly experienced the anxiety of being in the school the previous year and some had seen firsthand the carnage of the final battle. What they only now were starting to understand was that the war had begun long before that night when Harry Potter had at long last shown up at Hogwarts.

Once her class seemed to at least begin to absorb what she'd told them, she launched into her lesson.

Having a free period before lunch, Samantha spent some time planning her next lesson before ambling down to the dungeons. She realized she'd never before seen her husband-to-be actually teaching and so took it upon herself to take in the show for the last ten minutes of his Ravenclaw-Hufflepuff NEWT class.

"One point to Hufflepuff," she heard him say with no small amount of distaste. Samantha remained in the corridor out of sight for a few moments, listening to him further expound on the properties of rosehip.

Leaning against the wall, Samantha closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. A slight smile curved her lips. His voice really was _quite_ something.

She continued to listen as he wrapped up his lecture. As he was preparing to dismiss his class, Samantha stepped into the doorway and leaned against the stonework jamb, folding her arms across her chest.

Snape, of course, immediately took notice of her, but only raised an eyebrow as he continued to rattle off the homework he expected them to finish before the next class.

The seventh years began streaming out the moment the words left his mouth. Samantha turned to face the doorjamb to allow them to exit. Once the last had gone, Snape approached her.

"Enjoying your free time?" Snape asked in a low voice. Before she could answer, he grabbed her by the waist and pulled her into the classroom, smoothly shutting the door with his other hand even as he pushed her up against it.

"Why, Severus," said Samantha with a laugh.

He kissed her deeply. Not being prepared for it, Samantha was quite breathless when he moved to her neck.

Samantha tangled her hand in his hair.

"I could get used to this," she whispered as he gripped her hip.

"Could you, indeed?" Snape echoed, continuing his ministrations on her neck.

Samantha gasped suddenly.

"Professor Snape!" She said in just short of a shout.

"Call me that again and I shall be forced to give you a –"

Snape raised his head to meet her eyes, only to see she wasn't looking at him at all, but just over his left shoulder. Turning his head, he saw very nearly the last sight he wanted to see.

"Sir, I didn't mean to – that is – I dropped my bag and m-my quills went everywhere –"

The girl immediately silenced herself when Snape stepped away from Samantha and folded his arms over his chest. He glared down his nose at her.

"Get to the Great Hall," he said imperiously. He paused, while she still remained seemingly immobile. _"Now."_

Samantha, fighting a smile, opened the door and the girl quietly scampered out. Closing it behind her, Samantha's laughter immediately began to echo around the curved ceilings of Snape's classroom. Snape looked decidedly less amused.

"They'll all be talking about it the moment she steps foot in the hall," he grumbled, his arms still crossed. Samantha walked over to him and laid her hands on his wool-clad arms.

" _Severus,"_ she said. "They all know we're _engaged_. Surely it won't be _that_ big of a shock for them to know you kissed me."

"That is entirely beside the point," he sniffed.

"Then what _is_ the point?"

Snape huffed and dropped his arms before swooping back to his desk.

"I should have known she was in the room," he said at last.

"Why should you have known?" Asked Samantha. "She was on the floor. I didn't see her either."

"But _I_ should have," Snape maintained. "I didn't stay alive for as long as I did by ignoring my surroundings."

"Severus," Samantha said quietly, her voice more serious. "It isn't – we're not…"

She threw her hands up in the air, unable to find the right words.

"We're not at war?" He provided. "We both know all too well that that is no reason to drop your guard."

"You're impossible when you're like this," said Samantha, already turning back to the door.

"Like what?" Snape asked hotly. _"Myself?"_

"Oh, don't do that," she admonished him. "You know what I mean."

"I'm afraid I don't."

Samantha held her palms up in surrender.

"I'm not doing this," she said, turning to leave the classroom.

Snape closed the gap quite easily and walked beside her as she made her way up to lunch.

"Severus, not now," she hissed between clenched teeth. "We are not getting into this in the middle of the school."

Her anger was making her movements jerky as she tried to walk faster, with which he easily kept pace.

"Do you somehow think that I would be a different person after the war?" He asked, his voice quiet but insistent and brimming with anger. "Were you expecting some glamour to be lifted and I would become your _prince charming_?"

Snape was properly spitting his words now. Samantha came to an abrupt stop at the top of the stairs leading to the Entrance Hall.

"I expected nothing of the sort," Samantha argued. "You are twisting my words."

" _You_ are harboring illusions about the kind of man I am."

She began to walk toward the Great Hall, but her anger demanded she have the last word.

"Trust me, Severus," she threw over shoulder as she continued to walk. "I harbor no illusions about your capacity to be a complete ass."

A couple of students had walked through the Entrance Hall at just that moment and stared in shock at their professors.

"Get to lunch," Snape sneered at them before turning in a swirl of robes and stalking back down the stairs to the dungeons.

Samantha stomped through the Great Hall and sat down heavily in her seat. She filled her plate with staccato movements before savagely spearing a roasted carrot. Those around her were in no doubt as to her mood.

"I will be announcing the quidditch match at dinner this evening," McGonagall said, leaning over Snape's empty seat.

Samantha stared at her employer, slowing chewing her food, wondering why the announcement of a quidditch match would involve her.

"The faculty –"

"Oh!" Samantha spluttered around her half chewed food. She grimaced before putting a hand in front of her mouth to finish chewing. "Sorry. It's been…a long week. I'd completely forgotten about it."

McGonagall waved her hand.

"It's been a long week for all of us, which is why I've decided to do the announcement now," she explained. "If only to give the parents something else to talk about."

"Minerva, I _am_ sorry about –"

"I've already told you, Samantha, you have nothing to apologize for on that score."

McGonagall's tone brooked no further argument.

"Now where is Severus?" She asked. "That man is far too thin to be missing meals."

"Severus is just being… _Severus_ ," Samantha answered with a sigh.

The headmistress nodded knowingly before turning back to her lunch. The woman had been dealing with him since he was 11 years old. She knew as well as anyone what he could be like.

That afternoon, Samantha started on her Scottish history unit with the second half of the fifth years. There had been some startling looks thrown her way as the class filed in. She could only assume that the rumor mill had been at work spreading news of either her and Snape's fight or their indiscretion just before. Or both. If a single student saw anything worth talking about, it was a sure bet to say that at least half the student body would know about it within the hour.

"As you may recall from the first week of term," Samantha began after taking roll. "We talked about the social contract. Now, I know we had a bit of a – of a break in between, but does anyone remember what John Locke said about it?"

Suddenly, most of the class seemed very interested in their desktops.

"I know a week can seem a _very_ long time at your age, but surely someone remembers something."

Finally, there were a couple of hands in the air, all belonging to Gryffindors.

"Yes, Mr. Finch," she said.

"He said that before there was a government, people lived in a State of…Nature?" He asked, more than said.

Samantha nodded encouragingly.

"Go on."

He looked down at his notebook.

"And there were no laws," he added.

"You're on the right track," Samantha said. "One point to Gryffindor for that answer. There was no _civil_ government, but the State of Nature, according to Locke, is not lawless. While Thomas Hobbes argued that the State of Nature and the state of war are one and the same, Locke believed that this pre-political society was a state of perfection."

Samantha paused to allow her students time to catch up in their notetaking.

"And it was governed by the Law of Nature, which commands that we not harm one another," she continued. "Now, while this sounds all well and good, without some governing authority to which everyone has consented, there is no one there to arbitrate disputes. So in this state, if war begins, it doesn't end. For Hobbes, the only way to prevent this was through absolute authority. Locke argued that those in power had to rely upon the consent of the governed."

"Hobbes had it right," drawled one of the Slytherin boys.

Samantha raised an eyebrow at him.

"Did he?" She asked. "Enter the discourse then, Mr. Outterridge. Why is he right?"

"Well, the only way to make sure you get what you want is to not let anyone disagree with you," he explained.

"But what if what you want isn't right? Or isn't good for everyone else?" Samantha challenged him.

"That's their problem," he said. "If you're in power, you don't have to worry about it."

"Don't you?" She asked. "Do you think that's how society works?"

"Well, obviously not," he said with an airy wave of his hand. "If it was, we wouldn't be sitting here."

Samantha stared hard at him, trying to determine exactly what he was getting at. All sorts of conclusions leapt to mind, none of them good. First and foremost was that the kind of power he seemed to be lamenting the loss of was Voldemort's. For the boy's part, he seemed to think he'd made his point and offered no further comment on the issue despite Samantha's prodding. Either that or he'd realized what kind of opinions he was letting air and reclaimed his hold on his tongue.

The lesson continued wholly unremarkably. Samantha had no clue whether anything she was saying made sense to her students. She hoped she had been able to strike the balance between their comprehension and doing justice to the material at the same time. No one in the class asked for clarification, but as the lesson drew to a close, she rather thought they were simply biding their time before the bell rang to let them out for dinner.

The speed with which the students packed up their belongings when that bell finally rang out confirmed to Samantha that her lecturing couldn't compare to the house elves' cooking.

"Your attention, please," McGonagall said in a loud voice, clinking her class with her fork as she stood.

The hall quieted and hundreds of curious faces peered up at the head table.

"In an effort to promote school unity and interhouse cooperation, we have decided to hold a student versus faculty quidditch match," she announced.

The response was immediate. There was excited murmuring amongst the students that was quickly reaching full voice.

"Quiet down," McGonagall said, not unkindly. "The match will be held on the Saturday prior to the Easter holiday. I will meet with the four house team captains to discuss the details."

With that, McGonagall reseated herself. The Hall exploded with noise and the children were already turning to their neighboring tables to discuss the news. While Samantha was glad that the reaction was positive – and seemed to already be generating some interhouse goodwill – she found it hard to focus on anything other than the brooding man sitting next to her. She hadn't had a spare moment to speak with him since their fight before lunch. She glanced over at him, to find that his head was tilted forward, hiding his face from her behind curtains of black hair.

"Severus," she said as quietly as she could while still remaining audible over the students.

A fairly tense moment passed before he finally raised his head.

"I – can we talk after dinner?"

He nodded, though it looked as if it pained him to do so.

Samantha steered them toward her own quarters after they'd finished eating. While she was sure Snape would have preferred his own dungeon rooms, Samantha thought some time above ground might do him some good.

"Tea?" She asked as they sat on her couch.

Snape, who had seated himself a bit further away from her than he normally would have done, nodded silently.

Samantha busied herself with the process of brewing their tea while she tried to figure out how to approach the conversation. She was no closer to an answer when she handed Snape his cup. Her agonizing was all for naught, however, for Snape spoke when she had settled onto the couch.

"I – I'm sorry," he said.

Samantha was fully aware she was staring at him with her mouth wide open, but she couldn't manage to do much else. He smiled sardonically at her reaction.

"I overreacted and I am sorry," he continued, sounding a bit surer of himself.

"Well, this is unexpected," said Samantha.

"I have ruined too many relationships because of things I've said in anger," Snape explained. "I am not going to allow that to happen to us."

His voice was quiet and Samantha could tell that even as he was opening up in a way she honestly hadn't thought him capable, he was struggling to do it.

"Why are you crying?" Snape asked suddenly, looking panicked.

Samantha hadn't even realized she'd started crying, but her cheeks were wet when she brushed the back of her hand across her face. She smiled at him.

"I'm just so pleased that you – that we can have a conversation like this," she said. "I knew from the moment I met you that you dislike sharing much of yourself, so I feel very… _privileged_ that you don't feel you need to hold me at arm's length."

Snape shifted on the couch, edging closer to her.

"It's not that I dislike it, per se," he corrected her. Samantha raised her eyes to his, surprised. "I learned very young that the more someone knows about you, the more they can use against you. I have spent my life trying not to give anyone a weapon that they would inevitably use against me."

Samantha sighed sadly, her brows knitted in concern for her fiancé.

"I wish that was a lesson you never had to learn," she said.

Snape shrugged off her sympathy.

"Without it, I would not have survived the first war."

"Be that as it may," Samantha rejoined. "We all pick up a lot of coping mechanisms and survival tactics along the way. While they may have served us some good at one time or another, it doesn't mean we should accept that they are part of us or that we should simply accept the reasons we needed them in the first place."

Samantha sat back against the couch while carefully choosing her next words.

"I've been thinking of asking Minerva to talk to St. Mungo's about bringing in some…help," she started.

Snape raised an eyebrow.

"Help for what?"

Samantha bit her lip before responding, hoping that the good will generated thus far by their conversation would carry her through.

"Psychological," she clarified. "I think the students – and staff – might have some…um… _issues_ from the war that they are not dealing with. Post-traumatic stress…and the like."

Snape was still for a moment. He didn't look angry, which was a start.

"The Muggleborns will be more receptive to it," he said at last.

Samantha was thrilled that he seemed to be taking her idea seriously. Now came the hard part.

"Would you…be receptive to it?" She asked carefully.

He didn't immediately say no, which Samantha took as a win in her book, though he did manage to change the subject and to derail her every attempt to turn the conversation back toward his need for psychiatric treatment. All in all, however, the whole affair had gone _much_ better than Samantha had anticipated. She hadn't had to walk on eggshells, trying to get him to see that he might have been in the wrong. He had immediately owned up to it without any prodding. It was real progress. Perhaps, she thought as she got ready for bed later that evening, they might finally be able to leave the shadows of their past lives behind.

The _Daily Prophet_ headline the next morning sparked in Samantha the kind of spiteful triumph that she studiously avoided. In big, bold letters was just one word: "INQUIRY." Underneath was a photo of Kingsley Shacklebolt, the only movement was his frown getting more pronounced with each passing second. She continued reading.

The Department of Magical Law Enforcement announced today that it will launch an inquiry into the handling of the recent Death Eater trials. After the acquittal of Professor Severus Snape and the successful appeal of his fellow Hogwarts professor – and _fiancée_ – Professor Samantha Rhodes, it was revealed that Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt lied to witnesses and the Wizengamot in order to secure the charges and Professor Rhodes' conviction.

In an effort to remain impartial and to prevent Ministry interference in the inquiry, Alban Daubney, head of the department, told reporters that an independent panel will be established to investigate the claims of malfeasance on the part of the Minister and the Wizengamot. The panel will include, among others, experts in law, ethics, and politics. No names have been released.

Samantha put down the paper and rested her chin on her hand. When Snape took his seat beside her, she wordlessly placed the newspaper in front of him and turned to see his reaction. While his immediate reaction was to smirk at what would surely be the downfall of Kingsley Shacklebolt, he frowned as read the article.

"The handling of the recent Death Eater Trials," he read aloud before looking up at Samantha. "If all of the trials are being investigated –"

Samantha gasped. The full scope of the inquiry hadn't quite sunk in.

" _All of them,"_ she said. "All of their convictions could be overturned."

"Or in line for appeal," Snape added. "It could introduce doubt where there was none. The court clerk told Simeon and I that Shacklebolt's handling of those trials was _irregular_."

"That's putting it mildly," Samantha responded sarcastically, though her brow was creased with worry. She spoke again, much more quietly, "This could be dangerous for us. For _you_."

Snape shrugged off her concern.

"The Dark Lord cannot return," he said.

"The Dark Lord doesn't need to return for any of them to want revenge," Samantha countered. "Or for someone else to take his place."

Samantha shook her head as if her displace the thoughts that had lodged themselves in her mind.

"We can't do this to ourselves," she said suddenly. "That they're having an inquiry at all is a sign of progress. The power of the Minister needs to be checked. We may try to insulate ourselves as best we can from the Muggle world, but we are still British citizens and we have human rights that are being violated. Magical society needs to step out of the fifteenth century and join the modern world."

Snape raised an eyebrow at her diatribe.

"Trying to plead your case to replace him?"

"God, no," Samantha answered immediately. "I'm just – it's my classes. Of course I'm grateful that you've made the subject mandatory for the Slytherins –"

"What have they done?" Snape asked with an edge to his voice.

Samantha shook her head, trying to describe the unease from her lesson the previous day.

"It's difficult to explain," she said. Snape stared at her wordlessly. "No one's _done_ anything. Yesterday I was talking about social contract theory and one of the Slytherins said something that was…suggestive of a certain...point of view –"

"Which one and what did they say?" Snape asked flatly.

"Well, I'm not even sure if he meant it as – what I mean is – I don't know if I was correctly inferring what he meant to imply," she finished at last. She wasn't quite sure why she felt so unwilling to simply name the boy and what he'd said. Perhaps she didn't want Snape to unleash his anger on him without just cause.

"And what did you infer?" He asked impatiently.

"I was contrasting the theories of Hobbes and Locke and this particular student said that Hobbes had gotten it right," she explained.

"Gotten what right?" Snape disliked asking so many questions to get the answers he wanted and it was starting to show on his face.

"Absolute power," Samantha said quickly. "Hobbes argued that the only way to prevent war is through absolute power. I did challenge his comment, but he wasn't swayed. He said that he didn't think it was the way the world actually worked but if it did, that we – that we wouldn't be sitting here."

Snape sat back in his chair, frowning.

"It was…ambiguous," he said at last.

Samantha raised an eyebrow at him.

"One of the charms of our house," she retorted.

"It can be," said Snape, completely serious. "But when it comes to this, I am no longer tolerating ambiguity."

His eyes moved up and down the Slytherin table before turning unblinkingly on Samantha.

"Who was it?"

Samantha hesitated before answering. Then the thought entered her mind that it was precisely the kind of hesitation she was showing that had allowed much of the troubles to go unchecked for as long as they had.

"Outterridge," she said at last.

Snape looked somewhat surprised at her answer.

"His parents were not Death Eaters," he explained. "If memory serves, they do not even live amongst other wizarding families."

"Maybe he was just trying to get a rise out of me?"

He shrugged.

"Perhaps," he admitted. "But I will speak to him."

Samantha sighed loudly. Snape opened his mouth to chide her, but she put her hand up.

"No, I know," she said. "It's hard to earn their trust. I thought perhaps the engagement would help, but…perhaps not. It seems they've forgotten I'm one of them."

"You are, but not in many ways," Snape said.

Samantha's eyes snapped immediately to Snape's.

"In _many_ ways?" She asked.

"You're not English, to start," he began.

Samantha scoffed at him and grumbled something too low for him to hear, though he was fairly certain the phrase "crumpet stuffer" was involved.

"It is simply the way it is," Snape said in defense. "But that is not _really_ why they don't trust you."

"Do explain it to the Yank, Severus, we have such a hard time with words and things," Samantha drawled.

"Ideology," he said. "In temperament, you are Slytherin through and through. But ideologically, they see you as an outsider."

"Ideology?" She repeated. "If by ideology, you mean reverence for pure blood, then –"

"That is _not_ what I mean," Snape interrupted her. "It's about appreciating tradition, the old ways."

"I do so!" Samantha countered, her voice becoming shrill and attracting the attention of their tablemates.

Snape shook his head.

"Not in the same way that they do," he said. "Rigid social hierarchies, wealth and title creating status – I know you. You do not agree with that."

"Well – no," she agreed. "Of course I don't. It isn't right."

"And it is that belief that causes them to distrust you," he concluded. "Those traditions will, in some way, always a play a part in our house."

Samantha rolled her eyes.

"Yes, well, I guess social climbing wouldn't make for much of a sport if there weren't someone to climb over," said Samantha, a touch of acid in her tone.

"Not all of us can be as indifferent toward our social standing as you," Snape retorted drily.

"All of _us_ , Severus? When was the last time you gave a single f–"

"From the sounds of this bickering, am I to gather that you two resolved your differences?" McGonagall interjected, a rather disturbing twinkle in her eye.

Snape stared at her, but remained silent.

"What do you make of this morning's _Prophet_ , Minerva?" Samantha asked, shifting the conversation away from her and Snape's private life – or what remained of it.

McGonagall was easily sidetracked by the news and, at great length, let her opinion of the Minister be known. Samantha glanced at Snape and saw that he was smirking at her.

' _Slytherin,'_ he mouthed.

The corner of Samantha's mouth lifted.

' _Why, thank you,'_ she mouthed back.

McGonagall had, meanwhile, gone silent after realizing that the two young teachers beside her had long since stopped paying any attention to what she was saying. Samantha was looking directly at Snape and had her elbow propped on the arm of her chair, with her chin resting in her hand, while Snape had twisted in his chair such that his entire body was angled toward Samantha. The headmistress sighed and rolled her eyes before turning to speak with Flitwick. Unless something highly untoward had happened between he and Pomona Sprout, McGonagall was fairly sure she'd have _someone's_ undivided attention.


	11. Survival of the Fittest

Samantha had learned to ride a broom in school.  She could remember it clearly.  But they’d seemed to teach it more out of tradition at Salem than out of any sense that the girls would actually use it as a reliable mode of transportation one day.  With the absence of quidditch, there was little reason to put much effort into honing one’s skills. 

It was thanks to this now glaring hole in her magical education that she’d been forced from her bed at an ungodly hour by a fairly insistent and probably over-caffeinated Potions Master.  The morning had only gone downhill from there.  After trying and failing to convince herself that _of course_ she could learn to fly properly, she wasn’t the youngest staff member for nothing, Samantha was absolutely certain that if God hadn’t made her with wings, she has no business leaving the ground. 

“You are listing _again_ ,” Snape said wearily as Samantha hovered unsteadily mere inches off the ground.  Her toes still grazed the grass as she swayed in place. 

_“I know!”_ Samantha ground out, gripping her broomstick with white-knuckle force. 

“You have to relax.” 

She scoffed at him.  Where did _he_ get off trying to tell _her_ that she had to – 

Samantha’s train of thought swiftly ended as she hit the ground with a grunt.  Before Snape could say a word, she thrust her hand up at him.  He took it and helped her up. 

“If you would just fly with me, you could get a sense of what it’s supposed to feel like,” he said, clearly not for the first time. 

As they’d begun her lesson, Samantha had insisted, as a child would, that she could do it herself and didn’t need to ride with him.  Now, her resolve was wearing thin.  She violently expelled a sigh. 

“Fine,” she reluctantly agreed. 

Wisely remaining silent, Snape mounted his broom.  The triumphant smirk on his face, however, resulted in a smack on the arm from Samantha as she got on behind him. 

“You have to promise you’re not going to do any loops or go too fast,” Samantha insisted.  

Snape looked over his shoulder at her, an eyebrow raised. 

“It’s a bit late to be extracting promises when you’re already on the broom.” 

_“Severus,”_ she said in warning.  She gripped his shoulder tightly. 

He might threaten to, but Snape would not intentionally frighten Samantha.  He slowly lifted off the ground.  Samantha’s arms immediately gripped his midsection.  

“I won’t let you fall,” he said, turning his head toward hers.  “But you have to loosen your hold or I can’t keep my balance.” 

Samantha didn’t say anything in response, but her grip relaxed all the same.  He slowly continued their ascent until they hovered fifteen feet from the ground.  Becoming a bit more confident, Samantha moved her hands to simply lay on Snape’s back.  Even though she could not see his face, she could tell that Snape had relaxed once they’d become airborne.  Perhaps he needed to come out and fly more often.  

Well, Samantha concluded, if _Severus Snape_ could relax, then so could she.  Taking a deep breath, she let it out slowly, practically willing the tension to leave her shoulders.  It wasn’t the best technique for true relaxation, but Samantha had found it worked when she needed it to. 

“I’m going to move forward now,” he said before leaning forward to urge the broom on. 

Not long after they’d started moving at a fairly steady clip, Samantha concluded that she was perhaps even more afraid of flying now than she’d been as a girl.  She suspected it had to do with being far more aware of how much it would hurt to hit the ground at this height and having none of her youthful optimism to suggest that she wouldn’t fall off Snape’s broom at any moment.  Thinking back to her first flying lessons and her younger self’s remarkably cavalier attitude toward the entire endeavor, Samantha wondered if she wouldn’t make a better manager than player. 

“Samantha,” said Snape as he came to slow stop.  “How good at dueling were you when we began to train?” 

He looked over his shoulder at her.  Samantha avoided his eyes, even while knowing he’d obviously not discerned her thoughts through any such underhanded methods as Legilimency. 

“You used a few choice words to describe my level of ability, as I recall,” she muttered. 

“And then you fought a war,” Snape continued. 

Samantha looked up at him then, surprised.  She was still quite unaccustomed to this particular brand of encouragement coming from him.  Snape’s tactics usually involved making someone so angry that they felt compelled to prove him wrong.  She quirked her mouth, but said nothing.  Taking her silence as acquiescence, Snape turned back around on the broom before bringing them ever higher.  Samantha could feel his body shift beneath her fingers as he balanced. 

“Did you ever learn to ride a bicycle?” Snape asked.  They were now level with the stands that circled the pitch.  Samantha was doing her best to not look down. 

“It’s not a question of balance, Severus, it’s the height,” Samantha said in response. 

“If your balance is good, then the height shouldn’t bother you,” he countered.  “Let me show you.” 

He approached one of the raised stands and brought them down gently.  Samantha got off the broom and watched as he kicked up and went directly into a dive down the side of the stand.  He pulled up as he neared the ground and came to hover a few feet from where she stood. 

“Show off.” 

“The broom will keep you airborne,” said Snape as he moved to stand on the leg rests; he pulled the broom up so that he stood in midair with the broom handle nearly parallel to his body. 

Samantha opened her mouth to tell him that if he lost his balance, he would fall to his death.  Before she could even take a breath, he leaned back, taking his broom with him.  She shrieked, but he just turned midair, coming back to the same position he’d been in before. 

_“Severus!”_ She admonished him, her heart still hammering in her ribcage.

 Snape smirked at her, but resisted any further stoking of her outrage. 

_“I told you,”_ he said reseating himself on his broom, “The broom will keep you airborne.  If you have a hand on your broom, you will be fine.” 

Samantha was determined to spend her free time that week doing balancing exercises.  It wasn’t that she was clumsy.  Samantha trusted her balance well enough – when her feet were on the ground.  However, she could also freely admit that she lacked the kind of core strength she needed to be a truly proficient flyer.  

The following afternoon, Snape sat in his office after classes had finished awaiting the arrival of Marcus Outterridge.  Not one second past the appointed time, Snape heard a knock on his office door.  

“Enter.” 

The door swung open slowly to reveal the fifth year Slytherin. 

“Mr. Outterridge,” Snape drawled, drawing out each syllable.  It was never a good sign when Snape did that and it showed on the boy’s face. 

“Sir,” the boy answered.  He dutifully sat in the chair toward which Snape gestured.  Snape, meanwhile, remained standing. 

“You didn’t try out for the quidditch team this year,” he began.  While he had told Samantha that ambiguity was no longer to be tolerated, Snape had to approach the situation carefully.  If Outterridge was indeed harboring some kind of admiration for Voldemort, the chance that there were other problems was quite high. 

Outterridge shrugged. 

“My mum read an article in the _Prophet_ about quidditch injuries and told me I had to stop playing,” he said sullenly. 

Snape wasn’t entirely surprised by the answer.  All of the house teams had seen a steady decrease in the number of students whose parents were willing to let them risk what could be very serious injuries to play.  Magical healing methods or no, one concussion too many was too much for even the most proficient Mediwitch to reverse. 

Deciding a different approach was in order, Snape sat down at his desk.  He leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs. 

“Do you know why I made Muggle Studies mandatory for our house?” 

The boy shrugged again, but remained silent.  _Teenagers_. 

“I asked you a question,” Snape said, his voice stern. 

“So that the other houses will think we’re not all Death Eaters or whatever?” 

“Think or know?” Snape asked, ignoring the boy’s flippant attitude.  He was sure it got worse every year, especially amongst the students who attended Muggle schools prior to Hogwarts. 

“They _know_ that some are,” he countered. 

Snape found his use of the present tense interesting.  Perhaps there really was something going on after all.  He leaned forward in his chair, propping his elbows on his desk. 

“I made Muggle Studies mandatory so that my Slytherins will know that their blood status is irrelevant,” Snape explained.  In his entire time as head of house, he doubted he’d ever been more direct with a student than he was at this moment.  “That it helps to better integrate us with the rest of the school is only incidental.” 

He eyed his student silently.  It was a tactic that nearly always worked. 

“I was mad at my mum that day,” Outterridge said at last.  

Snape raised an eyebrow in question. 

“What day would that be?” He asked, feigning ignorance. 

“When I told Professor Rhodes that Hobbes was right,” he answered.  The boy knew full well that Snape had known all along what had happened.  However, he wasn’t quite brave enough to call his head of house out on the subterfuge.  He also knew it wasn’t worth trying to draw out the conversation.  Forthrightness had its place at times. 

“In future, do not allow your emotions to cause outbursts that could be…misunderstood,” Snape advised him.  “Particularly in cases where what you say could be used by others to represent their cause.” 

Outterridge nodded and moved to stand. 

“If that’s all, sir?” He asked, half raised out of his seat. 

Snape nodded and waved his hand toward the door.  It wasn’t all, but Snape had far more marking to attend to than he even wanted to think about. 

Not one hour later, shouting that could have woken the dead interrupted his work.  It was clearly students, though what they were saying Snape couldn’t tell.  With a growl, he withdrew his wand and stomped to his office door.  He wrenched it open, letting it bang heavily against the stone wall, and glared at the group of students engaged in what looked to be hand-to-hand combat. 

“ _What_ _is the meaning of this?”_ He hissed at them.  Those from his own house moved to disengage themselves immediately, knowing that the quieter his voice was, the more severe the punishment would be. 

His answer was a cacophony of voices, all trying to plead their case with him. A quick glance at the slackened ties around the students’ necks was disconcerting; four of his own second year Slytherins and a lone first year Gryffindor. 

“You,” he said, pointing at the Gryffindor.  The boy seemed to shrink under the weight of Snape’s gaze.  He jerked his head toward the door.  “In my office.” 

The Slytherins smirked as the terrified boy scurried into Snape’s office.  Snape closed the door and whipped around to face the remaining students.  Their smirks disappeared instantaneously. 

“He was trying to sneak into the common room, sir,” one of them offered.  The other three students looked at him before turning back to Snape and nodding vigorously in agreement. 

“I very much doubt that,” Snape responded smoothly.  “I am taking ten points from _each_ of you.  _To start._ ” 

There were the expected gasps of indignation, but the boys knew better than to argue the point. 

“Do not be surprised to find that our house has lost even more points by dinner,” Snape threatened before turning on his heel and slamming the office door behind him.  Satisfying as it was for Snape to hear the scurrying footsteps of the offending students down the corridor, he inwardly winced as he saw the young Gryffindor flinch and sink into the chair in front of his desk.  Snape paused for a moment before walking to his desk.  Rather than sit behind it, he leaned against the front resting his hands on the edge.  He’d have much rather folded his arms over his chest, but he knew that would only make him look even more intimidating.  He was trying to be…approachable. 

“I wasn’t trying to get into the common room, sir,” the boy said immediately, if somewhat timidly. 

“I know, Mr. Davies,” Snape assured him.  He was fairly sure he’d gotten the boy’s name right.  After as many years as he’d been teaching, they all tended to blur together.  Christopher Davies was a fairly ordinary boy; brown hair, brown eyes, and an almost sickly pale complexion.  It was too early in the school year to tell, but he seemed to have promise.  It was, likely, the only reason Snape managed to remember his name. 

The young Gryffindor’s immediate response was shocked silence. 

“That being said,” he continued, “I am still at a loss as to why you would be in the dungeons at this time of day.” 

“I didn’t come down here on purpose,” Davies protested.  “ _They_ were following me.  I…got lost.” 

Snape sighed and absently folded his arms over his chest.  He _was_ trying, but old habits and all that. 

“And why would they have been at all interested in following you?”  He asked, trying to temper his tone of voice.  Snape was always wary of blaming the victim, especially in situations such as these.  He’d spent enough of his school years being hounded by a pack of bullies – and taking the blame, to boot – he had no interest in inflicting that on anyone else. 

“They were…making fun of me…in the library,” he answered stiltedly.  He toyed with his crimson and gold tie, rolling and unrolling it in his pudgy, ink-stained fingers.  “I was reading a…a comic book my mum sent me.  They took it and tore the pages out.” 

His breath hitched as he struggled to control his emotions.  Snape knew his reputation preceded him; no one dared cry in his presence.   What he wished he could tell the boy was that he understood.  While comic books had never been an indulgence of his, literature was and the Marauders had never let an opportunity to destroy his property pass them by.  For most people, they were “just books,” but for him, they were a means of escape, of _survival_.  To have them stolen and defaced had never gotten easier as his school years wore on. 

“I tried to get all the pages back into my bag so I could ask Professor Flitwick if there was a charm that could fix it,” he explained.  “But they followed me out of the library and then the staircases moved and I didn’t know where I was.  Then they had their wands and one of them called me a – a mud–” 

Davies bit the word off before speaking it, glancing up at Snape nervously.  Snape, meanwhile, was trying to control his own reaction.  He was livid, but had to hide his anger behind his Occlumency shields.  The boy had done nothing to be on the receiving end of his wrath. 

“Thank you, Mr. Davies,” said Snape, his silky voice belying his fury.  “I will handle this.” 

Snape gestured toward the door, signaling that the boy was dismissed.  When he reached the door, however, Snape stopped him. 

“As it happens, the spell you need is one you already know,” said Snape, rounding his desk.  

Davies stared at him with a faraway expression, clearly trying to think of a spell _he_ could possibly know that would fix his comic book.  Snape was not surprised he didn’t think of it immediately.  He’d noticed that it took Muggleborn students some time to realize the practical applications of the spells they were learning. 

_“Reparo?”_ He asked in a small, hopeful voice. 

Snape nodded and then hesitated before speaking.  He struggled with what he was about to say. 

“How is your grasp of the spell?”  Snape’s mind was warring against itself.  Since when had he offered spellcasting tutorials to first year Gryffindors?  He was going soft in his old age. 

“I – I fixed a tea cup…sort of,” Davies answered, ashamed of his inability to properly cast the spell.  “It still had a crack in it, but it was in one piece.”    

Standing up from his desk, Snape extracted his wand from his sleeve.  He cleared a space on the desk’s surface and gestured to it. 

“Place the pages of your book here and take out your wand,” said Snape, still at a loss as to his own sudden generosity. 

Davies rushed forward, swinging his book bag around to his front so he could extract the torn and crumpled pages of his comic book.  He placed them gently on the worn wooden surface and placed his bag on the floor by his feet.  Taking out his own wand, he looked up at Snape expectantly. 

Looking down at the boy, there were times, Snape realized, that he forgot how very young the first year students were.  He could scarcely recall being so young himself.  He wondered if he ever really had been.  Certainly by the time he’d gotten to Hogwarts, he was far older than his 11 year old body. 

“You know the incantation,” Snape began, adopting his lecturing voice.  “Without casting, show me the wand movement.” 

His face screwed up in concentration, Davies waved his wand about, clearly trying to not voice the word aloud as he did so.  It was generally right, but he lacked precision, as was so often the case with the young.  He also held his wand far too tightly to allow for any kind of nuance in his casting. 

“You’re not battling a hippogriff, Mr. Davies,” said Snape, holding up his lightly held wand.  “You must relax your grip.” 

Davies looked from Snape’s hand and then to his own, trying to mimic Snape’s pose exactly.  He readjusted the position of his fingers and again looked to Snape for approval.  Snape grunted in what might have been an approving manner. 

“Now,” he continued, “in order for this to work, the circle you’re tracing needs to be tighter.” 

“Sir?” Davies asked, staring from his wand to Snape. 

On a whim, Snape picked up his coffee mug and tossed it carelessly onto the stone floor.  Davies jumped back in fright. 

“Now watch my hand.” 

Snape pointed his wand at the broken cup and, with a tight circle of his wrist, he intoned the spell.  The cup obligingly put itself back together before Snape flicked his wand again to silently levitate it back onto the desk.  Snape glanced at the boy out of the corner of his eye to find him staring at the repaired mug as he held his wand at his side, waving it in a series of circles. 

“I – I think I might have it now sir,” he said, still moving his wand about. 

“Try it on the mug,” said Snape, knocking it on the floor again. 

Davies gave a short laugh at that before stifling it immediately, though the corners of his mouth twitched.  He glanced up at Snape nervously.  Looking back down at the floor, he thrust his wand out toward the mug and rotated his wrist just as Snape had demonstrated. 

_“Reparo,”_ he said.  

He gasped as the cup mended itself.  Davies bent down and picked up the intact coffee mug.  

“It worked,” he whispered. 

“Now time to try it on your book,” said Snape, plucking the mug out of the boy’s hand and placing it back on the desk. 

Snape stood back to allow the boy to stand directly in front of the pile of glossy, colorful pages.  He watched as Davies’ shoulders rose up and down dramatically.  Suddenly, he turned around to face Snape. 

“What if I mess it up?  Can you fix it?” He asked urgently. 

Snape bit down the urge to snap at him to just get it over with and to live with the disappointment if he botched it.  However in character it would have been for him, he knew the boy wasn’t in this position by choice or even by his own doing.  He’d been attacked and discriminated against.  If Snape wanted his Slytherins to engage with the rest of the school without dragging them kicking and screaming, he would have to be the one to set the example.  

“Barring incineration, I can put it to rights,” said Snape in a measured voice.  

The corner of his mouth twitched as Davies’ face contorted into a mask of horror at the thought that he might accidentally set his beloved comic book alight.  Alright, so he would set the example, it didn’t mean he couldn’t take some private delight in terrorizing his students.  Holding one hand up, he sighed. 

“I have only ever encountered one student who was…capable of such a feat,” Snape assured him.  Seamus Finnegan had almost put Longbottom to shame, in his own special way.  But Snape doubted that Davies possessed the same _flare_ that Finnegan did (and, by all accounts, continued to do so).  All the same, he surreptitiously palmed his wand as Davies turned around to face the desk once more. 

With one heaved breath, Davies raised his wand level with the desk and cast the spell.  He watched with baited breath as the spell weaved its work through the crumpled pages and ripped binding.  Within a moment, the book was whole once more.  Davies whirled around with a grin on his face.  It faltered some once he was reminded of Snape’s presence, but he remained exuberant all the same. 

By dinner, it was clear that Davies had been busy telling his classmates what Snape had done.  He had gotten some decidedly odd looks from the Gryffindor table.  When the Head of Gryffindor stopped on his way to his seat, Snape knew his reputation was beyond repair. 

“Severus,” said Bill, extending his hand.  “I want to thank you for how you handled the situation with Christopher this afternoon.” 

Snape grimaced.  He disliked calling the students by their given names, it was far too informal.  Wasn’t it bad enough that he had to share a castle with them?  He grudgingly accepted Bill’s handshake. 

“I haven’t finished handling it yet,” he muttered, turning back toward his plate as he glared at the Slytherin table.  That they only glared back let him know they were very well aware of the fact that he’d taken an additional 200 points after he’d learned that the offenders had used _that word_.  It also let him know that he would need to speak with his house to make sure they knew _exactly_ why they were currently trailing Hufflepuff after starting the day in second only to Ravenclaw. 

“Right,” said Bill warily.  “I noticed the point totals had…changed.” 

Snape grunted in response.  As much as he knew how little these things mattered in the grand scheme of things, he was still put out every time he was forced to take points from his own house.  Especially when it all but guaranteed they couldn’t possibly recover in time to claim the House Cup.  Even with the majority of the school term stretching out before them, the fact of the matter was that no one liked giving points to Slytherin.  He couldn’t really blame them, but nor could he continue in his self-appointed role as house point equalizer.  Besides, this time they really had deserved it.  He wasn’t about to dig them out of this hole.  

Samantha was uncharacteristically quiet through dinner.  He knew he should have pushed her when she’d simply replied that she was tired, but he was too busy trying to formulate what he was about to say to his Slytherins. 

The moment was upon him before he had settled his mind on an approach.  Snape could scarcely remember a moment in the last fifteen years when he was so anxious about speaking with his house.  He supposed he could only be grateful that he’d not had to address a situation anything like the one he was preparing to address when he was in his first years as the Head of Slytherin.  All the same, he knew this could prove to be a defining moment in his house.  

When he entered the Slytherin common room, he could swear they’d been prepared for him.  Most of the house had already assembled and were silent even before his robes had settled around his feet. 

“I am not here to explain my actions to you,” he began bluntly.  “I am here to remind you of what I told you at the start of term.  And make no mistake; I am _not pleased_ that this reminder must be made.” 

He paused and cast his glare around the room. 

“I am going to make myself _abundantly_ clear: I will not tolerate bullying.  I will not tolerate discrimination.  And I especially will not tolerate the use of certain _epithets_ to describe a student of Muggle birth.” 

Snape was met with absolute silence. 

“Everyone else in this castle is ready and willing to accept that we are incapable of change,” said Snape, gesturing toward the ceiling and the towering castle over their heads.  “I can do very little advocating for you if you refuse to behave as anyone would in civilized company.  There is no excuse for what occurred this afternoon; none whatsoever.  And if any of you are displeased with _me_ for the amount of points I took, you would do better to take it up with the housemates who forced my hand.” 

There were some pointed glares at the four boys involved in the altercation.  They looked to be doing their best to dissolve into the stone wall against which they had pressed themselves. 

“As for you four,” he said, leveling his gaze on the offenders. _“With me.”_

With that, he spun on his heel and headed for the door, knowing the four would be following behind him.  As he walked, he concluded that it was for the best that he’d waited before speaking with them.  Anger still coursed through his veins even hours later.  He would have given even his pre-war self a run for his money had he not tried to calm himself. 

Opening the door to his office, he stood outside and gestured for the boys to enter with a mock bow.  They dutifully lined up in front of his desk.  This time he could take delight in their flinching when he slammed the door. 

“How long has this been going on?” Snape asked in a deadly quiet voice as he loomed over them. 

The four looked between each other before looking back up at Snape, the feigned innocence writ clear across their faces.  Snape raised an eyebrow. 

_“How long has this been going on?”_ Snape asked, over enunciating each word.  He placed a hand on his desk and stooped to their level.  “I dislike being made to repeat myself.” 

“It was just a laugh,” one of them said petulantly.  Snape rounded on him, his nose inches from the boy’s, ignoring the three others who nearly groaned aloud at their co-conspirator’s admission. 

_“A laugh?”_ He said in a menacing whisper.  Snape stood to his full height, crossed his arms over his chest, and glared down his nose.  “I thought perhaps you might have learned from your sister’s mistakes, Mr. Parker.  Pity.” 

Parker drew a breath to speak but the boy next to him elbowed him in the ribs.  Snape remained silent as he eyed all four boys.  Without a word, he stalked back around his desk. 

“You will all receive a month of detention,” he said with finality.  “Every Saturday morning, you will report to Mr. Filch.  You will do exactly as he tells you.  If you do not, I will add another month for _each_ time you disobey him.” 

“But sir –” 

“Would you like me to give you two months right now, Mr. Woodward?” 

The boy shook his head vigorously, his lips clamped shut. 

“I can keep all of you in detention until you finish your NEWT’s,” Snape warned them.  “And after what you did today, you’ll find no reprieve from the headmistress.” 

Snape paused before continuing.  While he normally used silence to unnerve people – which it certainly was doing at the moment – he now was trying to put into words exactly what he wanted to say to them.  

“I am not punishing you to prove a point or to make an example,” he said.  “This is not a show.  What you said and did is reprehensible.  If I ever hear of any of you using that word again, I will personally see to it that you are expelled and that no other school of magic will take you.” 

He glared at them for good measure as he let his words sink in. 

“Am.  I.  Understood?” 

He was answered with a chorus of dejected “yes sir’s.”  

“Now get out.” 

The four boys stampeded out of his office in the way only twelve year old boys can before he could think of any other ways to punish them. 

Once they were gone, Snape took a moment to collect himself.  He could feel the tension and anger singing through his nerves.  Rolling his shoulders, he drew in a deep breath and slowly let it out.  It did little to ease the strain, but it would have to suffice.  Samantha was waiting for him and, after her demeanor at dinner, he wasn’t keen on leaving her alone for longer than necessary. 

The moment Snape entered his sitting room, he knew something far more serious than fatigue was bothering her.  She was staring vacantly into the fire, tears coursing down her cheeks.  He was immediately reminded of her reaction after the ordeal with Alecto Carrow and Dennis Creevey. 

“Samantha,” said Snape quietly as he rounded the couch and sat beside her.  She jumped at the sound of his voice and shook her head.  “What is it?” 

Samantha looked at him blankly for a moment, blinking as she returned to the present. 

“It’s…” She trailed off. She’d been prepared to say it was nothing.  But it wasn’t nothing.  And if she wanted Snape to be open with her about his problems, she needed to do the same with him.  “Azkaban.  I don’t know why it’s still bothering me.  I was only there a week –” 

Snape put up a hand to stop her. 

“You spent that week not knowing whether or not you would be spending the rest of your life there,” Snape pointed out.  

Samantha sighed and glanced at him before her gaze returned to the fire. 

“We’ve been through worse,” she countered.  “ _So_ much worse.  The war…why this?” 

Snape sighed and shifted on the sofa to face her. 

“It _is_ the war,” he said.  “This was all part of the war.” 

Samantha’s eyes cut sharply to Snape.  Her gaze moved over his face, as if doing so could discern his meaning.  She raised an eyebrow and quirked her mouth. 

“It never ends, does it?” She said quietly.  “We defeated the Dark Lord and yet live in a constant state of anxiety that he will return in one way or another.” 

“He cannot return this time,” said Snape.  He knew with absolute certainty that it was true, but the mere voicing of the possibility set his pulse racing.  His right arm twitched involuntarily.  Phantom pains, he was told, in the absence of the magic that had tied him to Voldemort through his Mark.  They may never completely subside. 

“ _He_ might not, but history tells us that it will happen again,” said Samantha, her voice grave.  “Look at the way we both reacted to Mr. Outerridge’s comments in my class.  That is never going to go away, is it?  We’ve all turned into Mad Eye.” 

Samantha sat back against the couch with a huff.  She was angry, but she was having difficulties pinpointing the exact reason why.  Frustration certainly topped the list; both with herself and with the wizarding world at large.  The Ministry needed to embrace modernity.  Before the disaster of the Death Eater trials, Samantha was sure Kingsley had been the best chance they had at real, effective change.  Isolationism was to blame in part for all that had happened, but there were so few witches and wizards who lived truly separate from their fellow Muggle countrymen that she suspected they only pointed to it as the culprit out of habit rather than weighing the full magnitude of its effect.  Theirs was a willful ignorance born of both fear and prejudice. 

“What was it like last time?” 

Snape raised a questioning eyebrow. 

“Last time?” He asked. 

“After the first war,” Samantha clarified. 

Snape considered her question for a moment before answering. 

“Different,” said Snape.  “Perhaps oddly, there was more celebration.  Or perhaps not so odd.  This time, we all knew what could happen.  What _had_ happened.” 

He sat in silence then, but Samantha could tell he wasn’t finished speaking.  It took him time to gather his thoughts. 

“Dumbledore knew,” he continued, his voice softer and lower than before.  It was barely more than a whisper now, yet somehow more deliberate.  “That was how he – when he told me that Potter would need protection.  He knew then that the Dark Lord would be back; knew it with absolute certainty.  Albus’ incessant need for secrecy colluded with Fudge’s rampant paranoia and created the perfect environment for his return.  The Dark Lord’s rise to power was assured.” 

“Someday,” Samantha said slowly.  “The Statute of Secrecy will be repealed.  It may not be in our lifetime, but it will happen.  And when that happens, there is going to need to be a brutally honest account of this war.  One that shows those boys you had to discipline today exactly who the Dark Lord was and what he did to his followers.  I’m thinking of writing it.” 

Snape couldn’t say he was surprised to hear of her plans. 

“There will be others,” he said.  “Ministry-approved versions.” 

Samantha shrugged. 

“There will be _many_ others,” she agreed.  “The problem is that history is written by the victors.” 

“Are _we_ not the victors?” Snape asked, his tone more than a little sardonic. 

“Not in so many ways,” Samantha answered him, ignoring his sarcasm.  “Not like that others who got to spend the war openly fighting for the light.  The fact that we were hauled up on charges the moment the smoke cleared is as much proof of that as anything else.” 

She sat in thought and then seemed to resolve something within herself.  

“You and I didn’t _win_ , Severus,” she said, the words tasting bitter in her mouth.  Samantha’s eyes met Snape’s.  “We survived.” 

Her words struck Snape like a blow to the stomach.  She was right, of course.  He wondered at how he hadn’t yet come to the same conclusion.  What he’d felt in the aftermath of the war was explained perfectly by just those two words: “we survived.”  There was no triumphalism or celebration, even with what should have been the joy and hope brought on by their engagement.  The prick at the back of his mind, the feeling in the pit of his stomach; it was the knowledge that the new beginnings they’d all hoped for were not available to them.  The war for him and for Samantha had been an endurance test.  Its end left him jaded and drained.  It was a reality that he had been trying to bury beneath the façade of confidence in the future – in _their_ future.  After all, how could they build a life together when he felt as though he had nothing left to give?


	12. The Seer's Tower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters may be slow in coming, but I will finish this story. Please read and review!

As Samantha walked up the aisle between the house tables, she took in Snape’s appearance.  The last time she’d seen him looking so worn down was during the war.  He had no food on the plate in front of him, merely a steaming mug of coffee.  He took a sip, grimaced, and then glared down at the mug in his hand.  Anyone else who was watching him might have simply assumed he was just in a bad mood.  
  
“Burnt your tongue?” Samantha asked as she took the seat beside him.  He glared at her for good measure.  
  
Samantha sighed, pouring a cup of tea for herself.  She watched him out of the corner of her eye.  
  
“I am fine,” Snape grunted.  
  
“You don’t look it,” she answered bluntly.  
  
Snape pursed his lips and took another sip of his coffee.  
  
“I mean it, Severus,” Samantha persisted.  “Did you sleep at all last night?”  
  
He rolled his shoulders, but didn’t answer.  Samantha continued to eye him carefully.  Snape turned to face her and raised an eyebrow.  
  
“One night of restless sleep is no reason to fuss at me,” he said at last.  “You are putting Poppy to shame.”  
  
“I’ll fuss at you all I like.  It’s one of the perks of being your soon-to-be wife,” Samantha retorted.  
  
They both froze at that.  A smile tugged at the corners of Samantha’s mouth.  Neither of them had really managed to verbalize since their engagement what would soon be their change in status.  
  
_“Wife,”_ Snape repeated in a quiet voice.  
  
Samantha laid a hand on his arm.  He glanced up at her before returning his gaze to where her hand lay.  Snape was still not particularly fond of people touching him, but he could recall every time she’d made this particular gesture – and she’d made it often enough.  She didn’t put any pressure on his arm, but the slight warmth from her hand that penetrated his layers of wool calmed him like nothing else ever had.  It was little more than a simple reassurance that she was next to him.  During the height of the war, that reassurance had been a like a life raft to a drowning man.  
  
These days, he wasn’t sure what it was he needed.  The notion that he might survive Voldemort was but a small pinpoint of light in the distance over the long months and years of the war.  He’d grown so used to hanging on to that small hope to get him to the next day that he still found himself with the same urge to press forward, to persevere.  But in the face of what?  He survived, yet still needed a lifeline.  For weeks, he’d convinced himself that the feeling would pass.  Yet it persisted and, more worryingly, it worsened.  He was beginning to panic.  
  
He gave Samantha a tight smile.  She smiled back and squeezed his arm before removing her hand, apparently convinced that he was on the level.  Something twisted in his chest.  It was more painful than any curse he’d ever suffered under.  
  
The staff meeting that afternoon seemed even more tedious than normal, if that was even possible.  The fact that Hogwarts was a school of magic had no appreciable effect on the coma-inducing two hours the faculty spent in staff meetings each week.  Those who hadn’t been involved in the tedium at this particular enticement to nap began to breathe a sigh of relief when it appeared to be wrapping up.  
  
“Does anyone have any additional –”  
  
“I do, Minerva,” Samantha interrupted, attempting to say what she needed to before anyone else could launch into a speech about a problem that involved no one but themselves and the headmistress.  They really didn’t _all_ need to know about Sinastra’s issues with Filch.  
  
“Very well,” McGonagall responded, gesturing that Samantha should proceed.  
  
“I, well, Severus and I discussed – that is to say, I think it might be prudent to bring in some…help.”  
  
McGonagall took a breath to speak, likely as not to ask what the hell Samantha was talking about, but Samantha broke in yet again.  
  
“Psychological help, I mean,” she said quickly.  “Whether it’s to deal with posttraumatic stress or grief counseling; that sort of thing.”  
  
Samantha glanced around the table at her colleagues, trying to gauge their response.  The majority of them looked to be in favor while Snape’s face was impassive, as per usual.  
  
“And this would be offered to the students?” McGonagall asked.  
  
“Yes, the students and the…staff,” Samantha answered, careful not to look at anyone in particular.  She could practically feel Snape tense next to her, however.  Her very mentioning that the staff may be in need of counseling would doubtless be taken by the rest of her colleagues as meaning at least Snape, if not she herself.  But it had to be more than a private conversation with McGonagall, if only because she was sure they could all benefit from it the same as Snape.  
  
“Did you have anyone in mind?”  
  
Samantha shifted in her seat.  
  
“Not yet,” she admitted.  “I would imagine St. Mungo’s may be helpful on that front, however.”  
  
“Get into it with them.  I will draft a letter to the parents.  I don’t want the students writing home with an incomplete understanding of what we’re doing,” said McGonagall.  
  
“But I think we should make it clear to the students that we will not inform their parents whether or not they’ve spoken to a healer,” Samantha added immediately.  
  
McGonagall nodded her agreement.  
  
As the staff filtered out at the conclusion of the meeting, Samantha struggled to fall in step beside Snape before he could disappear into his dungeon for the day.  
  
“Is there something you’d like to say to me, Severus?” Samantha prodded him, all too aware of the risk she was taking opening that particular door with this particular man.  
  
He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, but remained silent.  Samantha grabbed his arm to get him to stop, pulling him into an empty classroom.  
  
_“Severus,”_ Samantha said rather more insistently.  Letting him stew in whatever it was would not do either of them any favors. “Wh–”  
  
“Shall I put _all_ of my thoughts in a pensieve for the next time you want to share them with the staff?” Snape hissed at her.  
  
“What the hell – Severus, we discussed this not two days ago and you _agreed_ with me!”  
  
“And if I had wanted that agreement aired in public, I would have offered it myself,” he responded immediately.

“You cannot be serious,” Samantha scoffed.  “Are you mad that I spoke for you or that some of them may have guessed that you need treatment?”  
  
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Samantha regretted the way she’d phrased her question. Snape’s face shuttered immediately.  
  
“I wasn’t aware you’d gotten a healer’s license,” he said in a deadly quiet voice.  “What have you diagnosed me with, then, _Doctor_ Rhodes?”

Samantha threw up her hands helplessly.

“You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Like…what?  Like you think I’m damaged?  Like you need to make sure I can be fixed before we are married?” Snape said bitterly.

“How _that_ is the conclusion you’ve drawn based on what I said in that meeting is so far beyond…”

Before Samantha could gather her thoughts any further, Snape had turned on his heel and was opening the door.

“I have a class waiting for me,” he said archly before disappearing out the door.

Samantha stared at the door in disbelief for a full minute before clamping her mouth shut and stomping back out into the corridor herself, muttering all the way to her office.

The day wore on interminably.  Her classes were going well enough, though she rather thought her students were just humoring her until they got to go on their field trip.  She had dutifully sent off an owl to St. Mungo’s, hoping against hope she wouldn’t be hearing from the healer that had had McGonagall and Snape summarily chucked out while she’d been in Azkaban.  She idly wondered if he were even still employed by the hospital.  If it were up to her, his having colluded with a duplicitous Minister for Magic to engineer the lifelong imprisonment of two innocent people was worth a sacking.

It was only after missing dinner in the midst of her marking that she realized she hadn’t seen Snape since their…conversation.  Though guilt didn’t quite describe the feeling, she also couldn’t place the blame squarely on his shoulders alone for the argument.  She put her marking aside with a sigh.  Samantha searched the castle high and low to no avail.  If Severus Snape didn’t want to be found, he wouldn’t be.  It wasn’t that she was worried for his safety, but it still made her uneasy to not know where he was.

Stopping abruptly in the middle of the corridor, Samantha scoffed at herself.  She had never been one of those women who had to know where their partner was at every moment and she was not about to pick up the habit now.  If Snape was angry and didn’t want to be around her, then fine.  He was free to sulk anywhere he liked.

Still, she was uncertain of how to handle him.  She’d dealt with his moods, but this was different.  Before, the moods could easily be explained away by the war and the spying and all that it entailed.  Though far from believing he’d become content and easy-going with the end of the war, Samantha had thought they might find simply living a little bit easier.  But Snape wasn’t finding anything to be easier.  He became agitated at the drop of a hat and she would be lying if she said his swiftly ignited temper didn’t scare her just a little bit.  Admitting that to herself caused a pain to tear through her chest.  He had been right, in a way, then.  If Snape couldn’t get a handle on his anger, Samantha wasn’t sure she could marry him.

Snape, meanwhile, had ensconced himself in the Astronomy Tower the moment his classes had ended.  He’d heard Samantha calling his name, but he hadn’t felt much like talking to anyone.  Even her.

There were days he thought he was improving; days where he was downright optimistic.  But after the initial flurry of activity following his recovery and the start of the new term, those days had become fewer and further between.  And the depths to which he was sinking now felt, if possible, even lower now than they had ever been before.  He hoped it was only a matter of perspective.  He knew what it could be to be happy, he had felt it.  Its absence now was felt even more keenly and bore with it a sting of guilt.  He had survived, he was gainfully employed, there was a roof over his head, and he was engaged to be married to an amazing woman.  What right had he to be so morose when others had lost far more than he’d ever had to begin with?

And yet, this constant state of neglect had been his existence for so long he wasn’t sure he knew how to go through life in any other way.  It wasn’t a matter of deserving happiness or not.  To abandon his melancholia felt like a betrayal of his very self.

Pulling his cloak more tightly against his body to ward away the chilling wind, he huffed in disgust at the turn of his own thoughts.  Stewing in his own misery atop the Astronomy Tower was not going to fix anything.  Every time he turned to leave, however, he would feel sick at the very thought of having to explain himself to anyone, but particularly to Samantha.  She would be understanding and thoughtful and sympathetic and it would enrage him.  He didn’t want help, he simply wanted to…not be the man he was.  The realization was not comforting, but it was the impetus he needed to go back to his rooms before he left the Astronomy Tower the hard way, however fitting an end for him the wizarding world would think that would be.

In the days that followed, Snape and Samantha kept their distance from one another.  Snape maintained an especially wide berth, more for Samantha’s sake than his own.  Samantha, for her part, was trying to give Snape space, even as she was entirely unsure that it was really what he needed.  She knew him and knew that if she didn’t give him a sometimes forceful nudge to share what he was feeling, he simply wouldn’t do it.  And it would fester.

But this was different; it wasn’t just a bad day.  He’d missed three meals in a row already and looked to be on track to missing another.  By the third day, he’d given out four detentions, a more than steady clip even by his own standards.  On the fifth day, McGonagall intervened.

“Can I speak to you in my office?” She stopped Samantha as she was leaving the great hall after dinner.

“Yes,” Samantha replied somewhat warily.  She had an idea she knew exactly what the headmistress wanted to talk to her about.  But she dutifully followed the woman up to her office, the pair idly chatting about classes while they were still within earshot of the students.

“Did something happen between you and Severus?” McGonagall asked without preamble the moment her office door was closed.

_“No,”_ Samantha answered rather more heatedly than was necessary.  She sighed and put a hand to her forehead.  “No.”

“Then, what –”

“I really don’t know, Minerva,” said Samantha dejectedly.  “He…after the staff meeting, he wasn’t…pleased…that I’d involved him in my recommendation that we invite therapists.  He’s barely said a word to me since.  But we’ve had disagreements before.  He hasn’t been like this since…”

Samantha trailed off, remembering exactly what this felt like and why it had caused waves of concern to crash over her.  A rustle of robes in the portrait directly behind McGonagall’s head caught Samantha’s eye.  Dumbledore had returned.  She glared at him.

Seeing the change in Samantha’s mood, McGonagall looked over her shoulder at her predecessor.

“Severus has always needed to be handled carefully,” the portrait observed blithely.

Samantha scoffed in disgust.  She knew it was useless expressing such rage at the mere memory of the man, but she found it welled irrepressibly within her anytime she was in the portrait’s presence.

“Severus doesn’t need to be _handled_ ,” she retorted.  “He needs –”

She stopped abruptly.  She had no idea what he needed.  But that wasn’t going to stop her from trying to support him in any way he would allow her to, even if it meant stepping back from him for a time.  The thought of it caused her insides to twist in agony, but this was more important than her needs for the moment. 

“I’m working on it Minerva,” Samantha said as she turned resolutely away from the portrait and face her current employer.  “Eventually he’s going to run out of students to give detention to.” 

“Yes, that’s what worries me.” 

Samantha took a breath to speak, but remained silent.  She shook her head. 

“I’m working on it,” she repeated. 

In the time it took Samantha to get from the headmistress’ office back to her rooms, she’d come to the realization that she was not going to find the answers she needed inside the confines of the castle.  This required specialist knowledge. 

“I don’t know how to help him, Father,” Samantha confessed.  “We’re all leading these lives of this…quiet desperation.  Now that the war is over, everyone is walking around trying to convince themselves that they should be happy because of it.  That we’ve entered the land of milk and honey.  But we’re all _so_ damaged and no one is acknowledging it.” 

Father Matthews gazed tenderly at Samantha before placing a gentle hand on her cheek, wet with her tears. 

“I remember that feeling,” he said, his own eyes glassy as he turned inward into his own memories.  “After the war, the immediate jubilation at the onset of peacetime gave way to a kind of despondency.  Of course, no one talked about it then.  It seemed…ungrateful.” 

“He needs a purpose,” Emma said definitively.  “But that’s only part of it.  He’s never had a life to lead.  He’s been abused and taken advantage of and I…” 

A sob stopped her speech in its track.  She pressed a hand to her chest. 

“He is hurting so much _I_ can feel it,” she whispered brokenly.  “During the war, he just seemed to cope.  At least that’s what I thought he was doing.  And now he’s hiding it from me.  He thinks I don’t see it, but I do.  I don’t want him thinking he needs to do that.  That never ends well.” 

“He isn’t doing it to hurt you, Samantha,” said Father Matthews.  “He trusts you, I believe that.  What I also believe is that he does not want to burden you with his pain.” 

“Well, I don’t care what he wants,” Samantha answered, sounding rather petulant.  “We’re getting married.  His pain is already mine.” 

“ _We_ know that, darling,” the priest commented.  “From what you’ve told me, I gather he has never had someone like that in his life.  That is a learned skill, sharing.  And sharing something like what he is carrying with him, well, that can take a lifetime to master.” 

At Samantha’s stricken look, he put an arm around her shoulders. 

“At the risk of sounding like a Protestant,” Father Matthews began with a wry smile, “‘Love is patient, love is kind.  It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.  Love never fails’.” 

“Rather abridged version of it,” Samantha muttered, but smiled fondly all the same. “I was thinking of using that as the epistle for the wedding.” 

“What did we decide on when you married Mark?” Father Matthews asked idly. 

“First John,” Samantha told him.  “Corinthians fits me and Severus better.” 

“That it does.  The two of you – and your love for each other – have endured far more than perhaps any other couple I’ve ever married.” 

Samantha sighed as her mind once again drifted back to what Severus had to endure. 

“Maybe if we start planning – _really_ planning…I don’t know.  Maybe it will help.  Give him something concrete to look forward to.  Make him stop doubting that I do want this with him.” 

“I think you may be right,” Father Matthews agreed.  “It won’t solve everything, but getting him engaged in this process toward your marriage will help him see that you’re there for him.” 

Her priest was right about one thing: It certainly wasn’t going to solve everything.  Despite how strongly it had affected her, Samantha couldn’t bring herself to share with him her own doubts about Snape.  It wasn’t simply about her fear that she would be unable to help him.  It was, in a far more frightening sense, about the way his anger caused her to second guess what she’d thought were her own stalwart beliefs in his good character. 


	13. In Memoriam

Samantha had been sitting in the staff lounge across from Bill Weasley doing her marking when an owl arrived with a bundle of decidedly non-magical post. He watched as she sorted through it, tossing junk mail on the floor next to her – credit card offers, coupon books, catalogs for stores from which she’d bought exactly one item a decade previous.

Though he was well traveled, the eldest Weasley hadn’t spent all that much time in the Muggle world. Not the modern one, anyway. His cursebreaking days had brought him face to face with plenty of ancient Muggle ruins, but the way his Muggleborn students spoke these days, well, he was beginning to understand his mother more and more. 

“Finally,” Samantha said aloud, tearing open an envelope. As she added the now empty envelope to the pile of post to be disposed of, she caught Bill’s curious look. “I get the mail I receive at my flat in London forwarded here.” 

“You have a flat in London?” Bill asked. 

“Not for much longer,” she answered, holding up the letter she’d received. “Well, hopefully. It’s a buyer’s market right now, but that never seems to affect the high end.” 

Bill gave a grunt that possibly sounded like agreement. He certainly didn’t know anything about that. Until landing at Hogwarts, he’d lived an entirely nomadic lifestyle and could carry everything he owned on his back – the Muggle way at that. 

“Are you and Severus going to get a place in Hogsmeade?” He asked. Once Bill had taken the Defense position, he and Fleur had found a small place together in the wizarding village. He still maintained a suite of rooms in the castle should he need to stay overnight – one never knew, being a head of house – but he returned to the house he shared with his wife most nights. 

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Samantha said, trying not to sound too distasteful about it. She was a city girl at heart and could not stomach the idea of putting down roots in the small village. Samantha put up with the isolation of their environs for the school year, but she had no intention of inflicting it on herself outside of term. She was hoping Snape would feel the same way, but they hadn’t really discussed it. 

They hadn’t discussed much, she realized as she thought more about it. She truly had no idea where he would want to live outside of Hogwarts. Would they need a home with space for children? Did he want children? She had no idea. He certainly didn’t act like he did. But until recently he also didn’t know whether he would survive to see the next day or not. Perhaps he himself didn’t know if he wanted children. 

“Samantha?” Bill’s voice cut in, his brow creased with worry. Samantha shuddered to think what the look on her face was that caused him to react like that. 

“It’s nothing,” she said with an airy wave and a shake of her head. “A lot of things to think about right now.” 

“I know that feeling,” said Bill. “At least you’re on the other side of the war planning your wedding.” 

Samantha took a deep breath and smiled at him. She’d almost forgotten what his wedding reception had turned into. Samantha took an appraising look of the man seated opposite her. So much had happened to him and to Fleur that she had simply, and shamefully, forgotten about. The scar that she had become so accustomed to seeing on his face should have served as a constant reminder to her that she and Severus had not been the only couple to come out of the war not wholly intact. 

“You’re right, of course,” she said, sounding apologetic. 

“Don’t go feeling sorry for me and Fleur,” Bill warned her. “ _We’re_ fine. _You’re_ the one marrying Severus Snape.” 

Samantha couldn’t help but laugh at that. She felt some of the stress from the past weeks fall away. She and Bill had not always seen eye to eye on everything, but he’d been there to comfort her after Lupin’s death. And here he was again, offering the same kind of no-nonsense, completely selfless support that always seemed to help. She felt a fresh wave of gratitude for him. 

Armed with the letter from her estate agent and a renewed sense of purpose, care of Bill Weasley, Samantha headed to her flat the next day to help prepare it for public viewings. While most of her furniture would remain for the staging, she had to remove all of her personal items. There wasn’t much left – a commentary on her relationship to her former life that she chose not to dwell on – but there were a few photos and it didn’t hurt to ensure that there weren’t any spellbooks or potions ingredients stored anywhere a potential buyer may go snooping. 

The estate agent was already in her flat when she arrived. While she’d not been the one who arranged the initial purchase of the flat, she was from the same agency and Samantha could only hope she didn’t feel any need to comment on the photos Samantha intended to box up or the new ring on her finger. 

To her relief, their conversation was fairly brief and consisted mainly of the woman telling her that they would barely have to move a thing to get the flat sold, it was so well decorated. Samantha couldn’t help but feel a bit smug at that. There had been some pieces she and Mark had not always agreed on, but she’d insisted and won. She almost always did. That was something else she didn’t need to dwell on. 

Of course, telling yourself that you didn’t need to dwell on something and actually _not_ dwelling on it were two very different enterprises. Samantha was not immune. So as she boxed up her life with Mark, she couldn’t help but compare him with Snape. She realized that the few arguments that she’d had with Mark hadn’t been won. He would simply capitulate almost immediately and do whatever made her happy. At the time, she hadn’t questioned it. But now it felt…shallow – both on her part and on Mark’s. She was aware that her conclusions weren’t fair to him. She’d been a different person then. And he was a very different person from Severus Snape. But she’d gone through so much that it was hard not view what had come before through the lens through which she now saw the world and with the depth of feeling of which she now knew she was capable. Mark had – and would have – never inspired that in her. 

The constant whir of her mind had left her feeling so raw by the end of the morning that she’d almost begged off her scheduled meeting with Simeon Ward that afternoon. However, the reason she’d needed to meet with him was not something she could put off any longer. 

“Simeon,” Samantha said warmly, shaking the solicitor’s proffered hand. 

“Good to see you again, Samantha,” he answered before waving her into his office. “Decidedly better circumstances, this time around.” 

Samantha took in her surroundings, never having visited the man’s office before. The shelves that lined the wall behind his desk sagged under the weight of his books. Stacks of files occupied every level surface, a few she was fairly certain only stayed upright with the use of spells. It was crowded but didn’t give the impression of being disorganized. It was exactly the kind of office she would expect and, frankly, would want her solicitor to have. 

“So,” he said, closing the door and gesturing her toward a seat as he took one at the table opposite her. “Your will?” 

“Yes.” 

Samantha reached down into her bag to retrieve the file containing her will and every other financial, legal, or personal document she thought he might possibly need. She was nothing if not prepared. 

“I haven’t updated this since before my husband died. It still names him as my beneficiary.” 

Simeon took the file she’d slid across the table and began to look through the documents, humming a response as he did so. Samantha unsuccessfully fought the urge to fill the silence with explanations. 

“I used to routinely convert my magical assets to Muggle, so that was never mentioned in this will,” she continued. “I now use my Gringotts account almost exclusively and have never converted any of my salary from Hogwarts. Seeing as I have almost no living expenses at Hogwarts, that balance has become fairly substantial.” 

“Which would explain why you’ve chosen me,” Simeon concluded. 

“Yes, I know your area of practice is criminal defense, but you are in a very small minority of solicitors who can practice in both worlds,” Samantha explained. “And, well, I trust you. Given my and Severus’ unique past, I wanted to be sure this was done right.” 

Simeon nodded in agreement. 

“I shall…what’s this?” He asked as he glanced over another page in the stack of documents. “Declaration of Life?” 

“Ah, yes,” she said, knowing she might have to explain it. “I don’t think that is something people here bother with. That states my wish that if I were to be murdered, I don’t want the person who did it to be punished with the death penalty. Not legally binding, but there is some precedence in America to suggest that it can have weight on the prosecution’s decision to pursue the death penalty or not. Obviously, that wouldn’t apply here, but if I were travelling or moved…” 

“That is a genuinely wonderful thing to have committed to,” Simeon said with some feeling. “I have been practicing long enough to remember when we still had to deal with this here. I had–” 

Simeon stopped speaking abruptly. 

“This is…this is something I will look into adding to my own will.” 

He cleared his throat and was immediately back to business. 

“So, we’re looking at a new beneficiary.” 

“And a new executor,” Samantha added. “My previous executor was a friend of mine and Mark who was a strictly Muggle solicitor. I don’t know that he’d be able to get his head round the very idea of magical assets, much less be qualified to deal with them.” 

Simeon raised an eyebrow at her. 

“It’s probably best you survived the war,” his deadpan delivery was as dry as the Sahara. 

Samantha couldn’t help but agree. Aside from the obvious boon of still being alive, she could say without conceit that her personal wealth just from the Muggle world was quite substantial. With the added headache of magical assets all with a will that would have had her deceased husband listed as her beneficiary, no living next-of-kin that she knew of, and an executor who would have been hopelessly ill-equipped to deal with half of her estate…Yes, she was glad she’d survived, too. 

The meeting lasted nearly the entire afternoon, but it had been worth it. Should something ever happen to her, Snape would be taken care of for the rest of his life. She’d also come away with the idea to start a fund for low income Hogwarts students. The school always accepted students regardless of their financial situation, but it did not provide them with all the necessities once enrolled. Samantha was now fairly sure she could change that. 

Feeling accomplished, Samantha walked out onto the crowded street near the Spitalfields Market. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast that morning, so she decided to treat herself to a pastry from a very good bakery she hoped was still in business in the market. It had been years since she’d been there, but as she walked into the market, she immediately saw – and smelled – the bakery that had made her wedding cake. 

It was somewhat bittersweet walking into the small shop. It looked much the same as it had when she’d visited with Mark on a recommendation from a recently married couple whose cake they’d enjoyed at their wedding. The owner – Gemma Sanders, Samantha instantly recalled – was standing behind one of the cake cases and Samantha hoped the woman wouldn’t recognize her. Her hope was somewhat in vain, as Samantha had continued to go to the bakery for Mark’s birthday cakes after their wedding. She’d known the woman and she knew she hadn’t changed so much that she would be unrecognizable to her. 

As Samantha placed her order with the woman at the till, she could feel Gemma’s eyes on her. Then, when she gave her name for the order, she could tell that Gemma had put two and two together. 

“Samantha!” She cried, coming out from behind the cake case. “It’s been an age!” 

Samantha inwardly cringed but obligingly kissed the woman’s cheeks. 

“I’m teaching at a boarding school now, so I’ve not been in London much,” Samantha explained. That much _was_ true. 

“Really?” Gemma asked. Then came the question: “How’s Mark taking that?” 

Samantha felt it like a punch to her gut. She hadn’t had to deal with the feeling much over the previous two years, so it caught her by surprise how much she could still be affected by it. 

“Um, he – he passed away,” Samantha answered delicately. No use telling her the truth on that score. What would she have said? ‘Oh, well, my husband was murdered by the minions of a megalomaniac dark wizard in a ploy to draw me into his circle of followers determined to wipe out the non-magical population in Britain and, eventually, the world.’ She’d be in Bedlam by the end of the sentence. 

Gemma gave her a sympathetic look, but Samantha didn’t miss the slight raise of her eyebrow when the women caught sight of the obvious engagement ring on Samantha’s left hand. Samantha remained silent. She didn’t owe anyone an explanation. When her food was ready, she took it to go. 

As she walked back toward the market’s main entrance – the topic of weddings, for good or ill, firmly lodged in her brain – a newsstand tucked into a corner near the facilities caught her eye. The glossy pages called to Samantha. She normally wasn’t one to spend frivolously on disposables like magazines, but these were special circumstances. While she was able to recall some of her sense before she bought every wedding magazine on the rack, Samantha still walked away with half a dozen publications. 

In glancing at the pages as she waited in the checkout queue, Samantha was reminded of the sheer amount of work that went into wedding planning. She was tempted to hire someone, but doubted any Muggle or wizarding wedding planner’s ability to straddle their two worlds. After all, she’d already gotten through planning one wedding, how hard could this one be? She certainly felt less particular about the ceremony than she had the first time around, knowing now what would really matter and what would be forgotten in the chaos of the day. 

Samantha settled in with a cup of tea and her new purchases as soon as she arrived back at the castle. With a pen poised over a notebook, she began making lists of everything she would need to see to. Ceremony venue, officiant, and vows were swiftly checked off the list; she did not envy those who had to write their vows and create their own ceremony. 

As she was making notes on a particular shade of green she fancied – which, she was well aware, flew in the face of her previous decision that she would be _less_ particular – there was a knock on her door. Presuming it to be Snape, Samantha simply waved her wand to open the door. Samantha only barely acknowledged that it was in fact Snape before turning back to her notebook, noting that the green should be “somewhere between sage and mint.” 

Snape raised an eyebrow at his fiancée before letting himself into her kitchenette to make a cup of tea. When he reentered the room, she was prodding her wand at a green bubble floating before her, subtly changing the shade with each flick of her wrist. He cleared his throat. The bubble disappeared with a small pop. 

“It’s…nothing, really,” Samantha said dismissively. 

“It didn’t look like nothing,” Snape retorted, eyeing the magazines strewn around her. “For the…wedding?” 

He wasn’t entirely sure why he had problems saying the word. Perhaps it was simply that he had yet to accept that this was really happening, that he wasn’t in a coma in St. Mungo’s having a particularly vivid dream about the life he would have had. 

“Yes,” said Samantha. She quickly started to clear away the magazines, giving him an apologetic smile. 

“Should we not be looking at these?” He asked, seating himself on the couch adjacent to the armchair she was in. 

Samantha gave him an odd look, tilting her head to one side in confusion. 

“To be honest, I didn’t think you’d be interested in any of this,” Samantha admitted. 

“What, exactly, is _this_?” He asked. Truthfully, Snape had no clue what went into planning a wedding. He’d never been in a wedding party before and had only attended perhaps two or three ceremonies in his entire life. They had been simple affairs; a bonding ceremony followed by a meal. He’d been given to understand that Muggles tended toward more dramatic displays. 

“Color palette, flowers, catering, music, décor, invitations…” She trailed off. 

That all seemed quite tertiary to the task at hand, but, in for a knut, he supposed. 

“Why wouldn’t I be interested in those things?” 

Samantha took a breath to speak, but no words emerged. She wasn’t sure why. She couldn’t say that it had been her experience from her previous marriage because Mark _had_ been involved in all those things. And while she had planned on taking Father Matthews’ advice to get him involved in the process, she had been thinking in more abstract terms of preparation. What she was sure about was that she needed to come up with an answer soon. Snape was clearly becoming more annoyed by the second. 

“Do you think I don’t care about the wedding?” Snape asked, an edge creeping into his voice. 

_“No,”_ Samantha answered immediately. “Just that the process of making the decisions about the minutiae like, I don’t know, what flowers are in my bouquet wouldn’t…"

“Wouldn’t what? Matter to me?” 

Samantha huffed in response. 

“Tell me, Severus, what it is about you that would make me think you would care if I had peonies or pansies?” She was trying not to lose her temper, but she was swiftly losing the battle. 

“Why don’t you tell me what it is about me that makes you doubt my commitment to this?” Snape demanded, his temper meeting hers. 

“I don’t!” Samantha shouted. “Why does this keep coming up, Severus? You have jumped to the same conclusion time and time again since we got engaged.” 

With that, Samantha jumped up from her chair and began to pace. 

“Do you _want_ me to doubt you?” 

Snape crossed his arms over his chest and held himself rigidly still. He was clearly trying to control his reaction. Samantha hadn’t been lying; she did not doubt his commitment. He just didn’t have it in him to give anything less than everything he had. What he _did_ have was a propensity to create reasons for people to distance themselves from him. 

Then, just as soon as his anger had arrived, it left, leaving Snape visibly deflated. His shoulders hunched over as he wrapped his arms more tightly about his middle. Two black curtains of hair covered his face. Samantha was certain this is exactly what he looked like when he was younger and had not yet developed the public persona that allowed him to hide when he was hurt. It made her want to cry. 

“This is…difficult,” he ground out. 

Samantha knew he wasn’t talking about the wedding planning. She watched as he rocked back and forth. It was a comforting mechanism. It was also the straw that broke the camel’s back. She couldn’t maintain distance when she saw him like that. In two strides she’d reached him and thrown her arms around his middle. There was a moment of resistance before he melted against her. She held him tighter. 

Samantha felt him crying before she heard it. He was doing his damnedest to stifle the sound, but he couldn’t hide the way his shoulders shook. She didn’t shush him, didn’t tell him everything would be fine. This was something he needed to get out, not be told that there was no reason to cry. 

She wasn’t sure how many minutes had ticked by before he calmed. Samantha let him pull away from her and he immediately angled his face away, sniffing as he did so. 

“This is going to be more difficult for you than perhaps for anyone else,” Samantha told him with somewhat brutal honesty. 

He turned to face her, eyes bloodshot and watery but guarded all the same. She didn’t like it when he did that around her. 

“Others went through this war without having to become someone else to survive,” she continued. “You became what everyone around you needed but didn’t want to be themselves because they all knew the toll it would take. And now we’re all asking you to change. It…well, it _sucks_. And it’s unfair.” 

Samantha stopped her for a moment, knowing that her next words could make or break their entire relationship and, by extension, irrevocably alter the rest of their lives. 

“It’s unfair,” she repeated before letting the axe fall. “But to continue on as you have is not healthy. Or fair to _me_.” 

They stood in silent regard of each other. Samantha felt as though all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room as she waited for his response. His face was completely inscrutable. All the same, it had to be said. She refused to marry him on a lie or with some vague hope that what he was going through would simply go away. 

“No,” he said quietly, so quietly Samantha wasn’t sure she heard him. He looked…lost. As lost as he ever had during the war. She felt something awful and familiar squirm in her stomach. 

“No?” She repeated carefully. 

“It’s not fair,” he said. “To you.” 

Samantha only just stopped the breath from rushing out of her lungs. They hadn’t quite solved their problems yet. Waiting for him to formulate his response was agonizing. 

“I don’t know why I have to be like this,” Snape muttered before he began to pace. “I didn’t _become_ anything for the war. The war took me as I was. It was the first thing that ever did. I thrived in it. Now…” 

Samantha could feel her heart beating in her throat, her mind speculating wildly about where his thoughts were going to take him. She longed to contradict him, but this was _his_ reality. It had been his life for decades before she ever met him, it wasn’t her place to say he was wrong about it all. So she stood, silent, and waited. 

“I teach, I eat, I sleep…I don’t know what the larger purpose is supposed to be,” he admitted. “What am I working toward?” 

He was having a full blown existential crisis. Samantha knew he’d been struggling after the war, but she hadn’t even begun to realize the true depth of the problem. All the same, she should have seen it coming. He’d never bothered setting long term plans for himself. He’d always assumed he’d never survive Voldemort – or Dumbledore. Without those twin threats, he had decades stretching out before him and nothing with which to fill them. She wasn’t vain enough to suggest that she alone could fill the void. But she could help. 

“I don’t know that anyone has that question completely worked out for themselves. I certainly don’t. But that’s why you’re here. To help me.” 

Snape cast a skeptical eye her way. 

“I mean it, Severus,” Samantha insisted. “After Mark died and I came here, I had my research and little else.” 

“Your research is going to save lives,” Snape argued. “And you still have it. I –” 

“Have a brilliant mind,” she supplied. “And you have your research back, the same as I do. But that isn’t…” 

Samantha trailed off, trying to put into words what she was feeling. What she’d slowly been realizing over the course of a very trying day that had vied at every corner to remind her of what she’d once had and who she’d once been. 

“Severus, you give my life the kind of meaning I thought it would never have again.” 

He stared openly at her. As expressive as his eyes were in this moment, it was difficult to determine exactly what he was going through his head. 

“I…no one…” 

Snape wasn’t often speechless, but it appeared she had rendered him so. Though speechless, she had an answer from him in short order. In three long strides, he had crossed the room to where she stood and crushed his lips to hers.


End file.
